


With Broken Spines

by TriscuitsandSoup



Series: Questions [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adoptive Parents Peter Hale and Chris Argent, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Peter Hale, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Depressed Stiles Stilinski, Depression, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Established Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Feral Behavior, Feral Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Trauma, Past Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Derek Hale, nogitsune recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: After saving Stiles from the Nogitsune, Peter and Chris find themselves trying to fill the void his father left, but Stiles' trauma is deeper than they expected. Derek has his own ideas on how to help.“We’ve been reduced to pest control. Remember back in the days when hunters only went after big things?”“Werewolves were the big things,” Chris said. “Back in those days you would have been the pest and your head would rot on spike.”“Not if I got to yours first,” Peter said with a flash of his crimson eyes.This is a sequel to For Another Day, it will probably make more sense if you read that fic first.





	1. Chapter 1

The pool had been left stagnant so long the frogs and mosquitos reclaimed it as their own. Half-inflated pool floats lay along the surface. A plastic swan bobbed up and down in one corner with a small thermometer attached to it, casting long shadows in the flash lights shaky beam. The painted eye ball of the swan had long since started to fade away leaving a dreary, drooping, smear where it’s pupil should have been. 

“It’s hard enough seeing through all this _muck_ with you shaking the flashlight back and forth,” Peter said as he dredged his net up from the waters. A dark congealed messed of algae and leaves pooled in its center. He cast them over the side of the pool with a grimace. 

“Why do I have to hold the flash light?” Stiles asked, gripping the light tighter to hold it steady. His little heartbeat was loud in Peter’s ear. The chemical scent of his anxiety meds leaked off him and masked most of his natural odor. Peter’s nostrils flared whenever the wind blew it towards him. He’d never had to be around someone so _medicated_ before. 

“Because you wanted to do something,” said Peter as he cast a pointed look at Chris across the pool. 

Chris was too focused on dragging his own net through the waters to notice. 

“I was hoping for something a little more interesting.” 

“Would you rather have the net?” Peter asked, holding the handle out to him. 

“No, thank you. Very generous.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “When do we get to do cool stuff?” 

Chris chuckled. “I hate to disappoint you but this is what most hunts are these days.” 

“Slogging through dirty pool water looking for an alligator-platypus?” 

“It’s called an _Afanc_ and they’re-“

“Really damn annoying,” Peter said. “We’ve been reduced to pest control. Remember back in the days when hunters only went after big things?” 

“Werewolves were the big things,” Chris said. “Back in those days you would have been the pest and your head would rot on spike.”

“Not if I got to yours first,” Peter said with a flash of his crimson eyes. 

Chris smirked. 

“You two have such a loving relationship. It’s overwhelming me. Stop before I suffocate,” said Stiles with a mocking gag. 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

Chris chuckled. 

As Peter dipped his net along the edges of the pool he felt something hard brush up against it. 

“Fuck. I found it.” 

The creatures tail surfaced. It was long, dark, and flat like a paddle but covered in dull green scales the color of kelp. The tail smacked the water’s surface and caused a wave to rush up the side of the pool and spill out over the lip. 

Peter swung his net underneath but as he pulled it up the figure lurched up. The Afanc was about the size of a small dog. Its scales glistened under the flashlights beam. It grabbed onto Peter’s pant leg and yanked. 

“Fuck!” Peter shouted as he fell into the pool. The water splashed up around him as he plunged through the surface and disappeared beneath the layers of green. The creature kept a tight hold on him as it dragged him down further and further. His hands scrabbled for the side of the pool wall. 

He kicked and hit the Afanc under its jaw. It released and he swam towards the surface. As his head breeched the waters he saw Chris aiming a crossbow right at his head. 

“Do not shoot me!” he snapped. 

“Then get out of there!” 

Stiles’ hand grasped his shoulder and tugged him out of the water. 

Peter grabbed onto the ledge and pulled his torso out before he felt the jaws snapping around his leg again. 

The Afanc yanked on his ankle. 

Peter’s hands slipped on the slime-coated lip of the pool. He clenched his eyes shut as he fell back into the water. Stiles crashed into the water right beside him. His arms flailed uselessly in the murk. 

Peter’s eyes burned as he opened them. Through the darkness the Afanc’s beady green eyes were just barely visible. He snarled though the sound was quite literally drowned. 

He grabbed the Afanc by its scale-covered throat and squeezed tight. He stuck his fingers in its mouth and pried its jaws from his leg. He was lucky it hadn’t bitten down hard enough to break his skin. 

The Afanc released and Peter pulled it to his chest. It writhed and thrashed against him but he held on tight. He swam up to the surface. just in time to see Chris pulling Stiles up out of the water by his arms. 

“Oh no, don’t help me,” Peter said, wiping his water-logged hair from his eyes. “I’m totally fine. I wasn’t almost _eaten_ or anything.” 

Stiles spat out a mouthful of water back into the pool. He breathed heavily and collapsed onto his side. 

“You wouldn’t have been eaten,” said Chris. “It’s not like it could actually swallow you.” 

The Afanc wriggled around in Peter’s arms and thwacked its tail against his leg. 

Peter huffed and pulled himself up out of the pool. “Anybody want this thing?” he asked. 

Chris met him on his side and put a towel around his shoulders. “Hold onto it until we get in the car.”

“No ‘thank you’?” 

“Thank you, oh fearsome and mighty predator. You’ve saved the frogs and they are eternally grateful.” 

Peter growled and pulled Chris down to his level by his shirt. He moved for Chris’s lips but was abruptly shoved away. 

Chris wrinkled his nose. “Not until you shower.” 

“You always say that,” Peter said with a sigh. He stood up and readjusted the towel around his shoulders. The Afanc wiggled and made a hacking nose. Its webbed feet clawed at Peter’s chest but outside of the water it was about as destructive as a penguin. 

“Oh god, what the hell,” Stiles hacked up another mouthful of pool water as he keeled over the edge. His hair had grown out a bit since moving in with them and hung down over his eyes in clumps. 

“Deep breaths, Stiles,” Chris called over to him. “There’s another towel in the bag.”

Stiles scrambled over to it on his hands and knees and rifled through until he found a towel. 

Peter wrapped his arm around Chris’s waist and eyed the pool. 

“Do not push me Peter,” said Chris. 

“So feisty. Why aren’t you ever the one faceplanting into pools? Why does it always have to be me?” 

“Because I’m careful,” said Chris. He patted Peter on the cheek and grabbed the light Stiles dropped when he’d been pulled underwater. “Now let’s go.” 

“You’re not going to kill that thing?” Stiles asked. He stood on the grass with the towel tightly wrapped around his shivering body. He moved closer to examine it and tilted his head to one side. 

“We don’t kill unless we have to,” said Chris. “Once it’s out of the water it’s harmless.” 

“You want it?” Peter asked. 

The Afanc blinked its beady little eyes at him. 

“Is it going to bite me?” Stiles asked. 

“It might, but it doesn’t have any teeth.” 

Slowly, Stiles took the sopping wet thing from Peter’s arms and cradled it against his towel like a puppy. 

As soon as Peter was free of the thing he rolled his shoulders back and looked up at the moon. It was half hidden behind a layer of clouds but the glowing half-circle enraptured him all the same. His muscles writhed beneath his skin. The colors in his vision shifted every so slightly. The trees surrounding them came into focus and things that had been hidden in the darkness were suddenly visible like the tiny insects blending into the environment. His bones cracked and snapped. He fell forward onto his hands-now-paws and shook the water from his fur. 

“Ew! Gross!” Stiles shouted. He jumped back, away from the spray of water. 

“Peter!” Chris snapped. “Warn people!” He looked down with a grimace at the layer of water that clung to his shirt. 

Peter snorted and brushed his head against Chris’s leg in apology. 

Chris sighed and scratched his ear as he bent down to pick up what remained of Peter’s clothes and towel. 

He followed the trail of scents back to the Tahoe parked on the edge of an abandoned road leading to the house and waited for Stiles to open the door for him. 

“Oh so he’s a wolf and he still gets to sit up front?” Stiles opened the door for him anyways and Peter clambered inside. 

“You should both feel lucky I’m not making your wet selves sit in the trunk.” 

“Fine, fine,” said Stiles as he got into the backseat. He settled the newly docile Afanc down between his legs and put on his seatbelt. 

Peter settled down into the seat with his head resting against Chris’s thigh. 

Chris grumbled something about dry cleaning as he drove back out onto the road.

“So, what do we do with this thing now that we caught it?” 

“We’ll keep him for the night and release him in the morning.” 

“Can I go with?” 

“I don’t know if you’d want too. I have a lot of errands to run and you have school.” 

“Hunter errands? I can help.” 

“No, regular ones like picking up groceries.” 

“That’s boring.” Stiles slumped back in his seat. 

Chris chuckled. He was silent for a few seconds before he spoke again. “I am meeting with a wendigo tomorrow, if you really want to come?” 

Peter opened his eyes. 

“Really?” 

“Really,” said Chris. He stroked his hand down Peter’s head and lightly squeezed his nape. “Unless you mind missing a couple hours of school?” 

Peter rumbled a growl and flicked his ears. He had his own opinions about the educational system but it wasn’t Chris’s nature to let a kid break rules so flippantly. 

“No,” said Stiles a little too quickly. “Like an actual Wendigo? How big is it? Is it dangerous?” 

“It’s a _she_ and her name is Eleanor. She’s not dangerous unless you insult her.” 

“What are we going for?”

“I need to ask her about some bodies that washed up on the beach a few months back.” 

“Bodies? What kind of bodies?”

Peter flattened his ears back against his head and nipped at Chris’s elbow. 

“Ow,” Chris snapped. He flicked one of Peter’s ears. 

Peter snarled and snapped again.

“Oh stop that,” Chris said. 

“Chris. Tell me about the bodies,” he leaned forward so his head poked through the gap between the front seats with the Afanc clutched to his chest. The back of its tail smacked against Peter’s shoulder. 

“Later,” said Chris. “I need to check my research notes but I’ll tell you about it in the morning before we leave, alright?” 

“Awesome,” Stiles said with a huge grin on his face as he slumped back into his seat. 

The rest of the drive passed in relative silence. They weren’t too far from the house but by the time they got there Stiles’s eyes were already half lidded and his tight hold on the Afanc slackened so it could curl up beside him on the seats. 

Peter looked up at the sky. The moon was still nestled in the center, beckoning him back into the woods. He could slip easily behind the houses and be back up into the forests in a matter of minutes, but there were regrettably more pressing matters at hand. 

Chris held the car door open for him as he jumped out of the vehicle. His paws hit pavement and a moment later those same paws warped into fingers and his body elongated and stiffened.

Chris was quick to throw a jacket over his shoulders. “Could you wait until we’re inside?” 

Peter shrugged. “It’s midnight. No one’s outside.” 

“If the neighbors look through the window they’ll see a naked man on the lawn.” 

“They’ll also see a teenager with an alligator platypus, which do you think is more concerning?” 

“In this day and age? The naked man. Now get inside.” 

“What should I do with this thing?” Stiles asked when they were back inside the house. He stared in the opposite direction of Peter’s naked body. 

“I’ll take it downstairs,” said Chris. “We’ll keep it there until tomorrow morning.” 

“I can do it,” Stiles said. “You guys can have the shower first.” 

“Cute try, but no,” said Peter. 

“Just let me see it!” 

“No,” said Chris. 

“I bet Allison has seen it.” 

“No, she hasn’t. It’s only for experienced hunters,” said Chris, plucking the Afanc from Stiles’s hands. It grumped and latched onto his shirt with its claws. 

“Ugh, fine whatever. Enjoy your secrets,” said Stiles. 

“We will, thank you,” said Peter.

“I get the shower first,” Stiles said. He stuck his tongue out and ran up the steps, his still damp hair and wet socks left a trail behind him as he went. 

Chris grimaced at the mess. “Wipe down the stairs when you’re done!” 

Stiles waved back at him from the top of the staircase and disappeared into the bathroom. For a teenager, he was usually pretty good about cleaning up after himself but only when he remembered he’d made a mess in the first place. 

Chris shifted the Afanc in his arms and dug around in his pocket for the basement key. 

“You’re coming with?” he asked when he noticed Peter standing behind him. 

“I think I’d better.” 

“I think you’d better shower,” Chris said through pursed lips as he unlocked and opened the door. 

The basement was large, larger than the living room and kitchen put together. In the past it had served as a bunker, an armory, and a holding facility. Now, it was mostly a temporary enclosure for wild beasts and a storage unit for the more dangerous weapons they didn’t want Allison – or any other nosey person – getting their hands on. A large fish tank and several large cages lined one wall directly opposite an arsenal of guns and stun batons. 

Peter was silent as they descended the concrete steps but as soon as they were safely behind the sound proof walls he set in. 

“Why are you taking Stiles to Eleanor?” 

Chris popped open the top to an aquarium. It was large, and usually empty aside from the occasional Afanc or Bunyip that came there way. The Afanc slithered happily into its temporary home. 

“She’ll know if he’s still human. It can’t hurt,” Chris said as he closed the lid. 

“I’ve told you that he is. Do you not believe me?” 

“Of course, I do but can’t you tell something’s off with him? I like Stiles, I do, but he’s always twitching, always nervous. His heartbeats fast, his breathing is slow. He barely gets any sleep. Sometimes it feels like you have to shout just to get his attention.”

“He has ADHD. That’s all normal for him.” 

“We don’t know what normal for him is.” 

“So you’re just going to chop off a finger and feed it to Eleanor?” 

“No. I just want her to double check.” 

“Fine,” said Peter. “But she’ll tell you the exact same thing. Stiles is human.” 

“I have to be sure,” he said. 

“I love you Chris, but you’re paranoid.” 

“I have to be.”

Peter rolled his eyes and stepped forward. He put his hands on Chris’s shoulders and leaned in to claim his lips. “Promise you won’t let him get eaten?” 

“I promise,” said Chris. He pressed his mouth to Peter’s for only a second, then he shoved him back. “You need a shower.” He wiped his lips on his sleeve just has they heard the water turn on upstairs. 

“Goddammit!” said Peter. 

“You know there’s a shower in our room?” 

“Yes, but the water will be cold Christopher. Unless you want to heat it up with me?” he batted his dark lashes. 

“No.” 

“You are the absolute worst.” 

Chris smirked. “Second only to you.”

⊶⧟⊷

Derek watched the moon as it followed its invisible path through the night sky. He lay in a clearing a little ways out from his old home, far enough that the scent of charred wood couldn’t reach him. Blades of grass tickled his ear as the low breeze rustled trees overhead, which did little to cool the warm air. It was hard to catch a good glimpse of the moon with so many clouds, but nevertheless the glowing light emitting between gray and silver puffs soothed the beast coiled in the core of his being. His wolf had been restless for a while.

His ears pricked as he heard twigs snapping not too far off from his right. He sat up, shining his beta eyes in the direction of the noise. A tall, lanky figure stumbled towards him through the darkness, only visible through the infrared of Derek’s vision. Twigs broke, leaves crackled, and a little, quiet ‘ow,’ came every few seconds. 

“I told you to stay on the path, Isaac,” Derek said.

Isaac broke through the tree line. His pants had bits of leaves clinging to them and his hair was more than a little disheveled. He carried with him a sulfuric scent that was vaguely reminiscent of high school chemistry class. 

“’m interrupting something?” he asked. He tilted his head to one side. 

“Sneaking up on a werewolf in the woods? Not a good idea.” 

Isaac’s smile flickered into a frown. “Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to see what you were doing. Thought it might be some cool, werewolf stuff.” 

Derek sighed and laid back down. “I was relaxing. Go back to the path. There’s a lot worse things than me out here.” 

“Bigger things like mountain lions, or bigger things like, I don’t know, a mega werewolf?” 

“Wolves that wouldn’t hesitate to swallow you whole.” 

“And how exactly is the path going to keep me safe?” 

“Chris lined it with emitters and fumes. It’ll mask your scent and most will find it too overpowering to go near.”

“You go near it.” 

“I hold my breath. Go back to the car.” 

“I’m not scared.” Isaac crossed the little clearing to sit down beside Derek. He laid on the grass with his arms behind his head.

“You should be.” Derek lay back down beside him and let his arms fall lax beside him. 

“When I’m a wolf will the moon still look the same?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“When are you going to ask Peter?” 

“Soon.” 

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep meaning it.” 

“Why won’t you just ask him?” 

“I don’t have to. I know he wants a pack.” 

“That sounds like you don’t know.” 

“Peter is my closest relative. We used to have a big family and now we don’t. I know he misses it. He and Chris are all alone.”

“They have each other. And Stiles.” 

Derek looked over at Isaac. 

“How is Stiles?” 

“Why don’t you ask your uncle?”

Derek looked back up at the moon. The clouds were slowly obscuring its shape. Somewhere, probably on the other side of the preserve, he was certain Peter would be watching it too. He missed when they would watch it together. 

“We don’t talk.” 

Derek let the silence drag between them. It wasn’t any of his business anymore what happened to Stiles, but he couldn’t stop thinking about those miserable, hopeless eyes on the roof of Beacon Hills Hospital. He remembered what it was like to feel that way. He remembered reaching for Peter’s hand and finding nothing there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Second chapter! The third one might come out a little later than usual since I'm in the process of moving. Thanks for the patience :)

By the time Chris woke the scent of pool slime had left his nostrils, instead he was assaulted with the cinnamon scent of Peter’s shampoo. Chris blinked his bleery eyes to see the back of Peter’s head in front of him. He couldn’t stop himself from running a hand through Peter’s hair and down his back. His skin was warm under his fingertips. 

Reluctantly Chris peeled himself away from Peter’s back. He loathed the way the chilled air brushed over his naked chest, no longer warmed by body heat. 

“Good morning sleepy head,” he said as he gave Peter’s arm a little shake. 

Peter growled and buried his face in the pillow. He curled his knees to his chest like an obstinate housecat. 

“If you sleep in you can’t get coffee at the nice place.”

Peter whined and turned to face him with one eye open. His voice was dry and cracked from sleep. “Why? Not like we have actual jobs to go to.”

“Because I have to take Stiles to Eleanor and you have to go feed the beasties in the preserve.” 

Peter grimaced and sat up with a groan, exposing his unclothed chest. “Let them starve.” 

“They’d sooner eat humans.” 

“Maybe we could stand to lose a few. Overpopulation crisis,” Peter mused as Chris pushed the blankets back and stood up with the stretch. He dropped his arms back to his sides and let his eyes linger over Chris’s torso in a purely shameless way. 

“Might be the few we like,” said Chris with a wink. 

“And yet you have no problem taking Stiles to see a wendigo.” 

“I won’t let her hurt him.” 

“You might not have a choice. If he comes home in more than one piece I’ll- well it’ll take more than a sloppy make out session and some cheap sushi for me to forgive you.” 

“Aw you made a friend,” said Chris. 

Peter shrugged. “More like an over-medicated puppy.” 

Chris finished dressing while Peter slunk away to the bathroom. Each morning the temptation to make a wet dog joke grew but he valued his unslashed tires too much to risk the repercussion. 

As he descended the stairs he was greeted by the bitter aroma of fresh coffee wafting up the steps. For a moment, Chris’s heart did a little leap when he thought it might be Allison, but then he remembered she was an entire ocean away. 

Stiles sat at the table with his legs drawn up on the chair and a ceramic “Beacon Hills Sheriff Station” mug in his hands. It was chipped on the corner and the letters were mostly faded but Stiles drank from it with religious devotion. He was the only teenager Chris knew who preferred an old ceramic to an expensive travel mug like Peter’s. Unlike most mornings instead of his usual batman pajamas Stiles wore a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. 

“I left some in the pot for you,” said Stiles as he looked up from his ever-present phone. 

“Thank you,” said Chris with a gracious smile. “How long have you been up?” 

“Since six,” said Stiles. 

“It’s nearly eight.” Chris retrieved his camo mug from the cabinet and poured his coffee. It was still steaming when he brought it to his lips. The dark roast was bitter and hot, just the way he liked it. The same way he liked Peter. 

“I know,” said Stiles. “But I wanted to read up about that Afanc thing.” 

“You could have just waited and asked me,” said Chris.

“But I wanted to know last night.” 

“Half of that internet stuff is just myth.” 

“I know,” said Stiles, “but some of it’s true, right? So, I was thinking,” he lowered his cup and flitted his eyes towards the basement door. 

“Go on,” Chris encouraged. 

“I was thinking that like, Afanc’s are only dangerous during the full moon, right? So … If we built a big enough space in the back yard-“ 

“No.” 

“What? Why not?” Stiles furrowed his brows. 

“Because it’s not going to be so cute when it’s eight feet long and eats cattle.” 

“Oh c’mon,” said Stiles. “It’ll just grow to the size of the pond, won’t it?” 

“Myth.” 

“What are we arguing about?” asked Peter coming down the stairs in a white V-neck and jeans. 

“Stiles wants to keep the Afanc.” 

Peter grimaced. “I’d have to say ‘no’ on keeping dangerous creatures in the house.” 

“Peter’s a dangerous creature and he gets to stay in the house.” 

Peter snorted. 

“He cleans up after himself,” said Chris with a wink. 

“Unlike someone,” Peter said.

“It’s organized chaos and that is not the point.”

“No Afancs. If you want a pet I’ll buy you a beta fish,” said Chris.

“No hamsters or guinea pigs,” said Peter. “I can’t stand the smell.” 

Stiles groaned and slunk down in his chair. “I don’t want a hamster or a guinea pig.” 

“Ah so you only like the dangerous things,” said Chris.

“So do you,” said Stiles, making a pointed look at Peter. 

Peter grinned and showed off his fangs. 

Stiles finished his coffee while Peter and Chris retrieved the Afanc from the basement and secured it inside a holding tank. It watched them the entire time through its beady little eyes.

When they returned Stiles had put his mug away and was sitting cross-legged on the sofa’s armrest. 

“Tell me about the wendigo,” said Stiles.

Peter held the Afanc’s tank in his arms. “Get the door for me.” 

“Can I hold it?” 

“Sure,” said Peter. He held out the tank. 

As Stiles took the holding tank from Peter he wobbled a little on his feet. The water sloshed out on one side of the tank. 

“Be careful,” said Peter. He grimaced at the puddle on the carpet. It was a good thing the floors had been built to conceal more than a little fish water. 

“Is she dangerous?”

“No, I mean these shoes were expensive. Be careful.” 

“Ah, right.” Stiles gave a little flickering smile and followed Peter out to the car while Chris went to get his keys and a few other things from the house. 

Peter lifted up the back of the Tahoe and Stiles slid the tank inside. More than a couple inches were missing from the tank, a healthy amount dripped down Stiles’ shirt. 

“So, tell me about the wendigo,” Stiles said. He grabbed a towel from the back and wiped it down his shirt.

Peter sighed and closed the trunk. “Honestly, this is Chris’s thing not mine. I was joking before but seriously, be careful. I don’t want you getting eaten.” 

“Does she really eat people?” Stiles asked. “Like alive?”

“Your lack of concern for your own wellbeing worries me,” Peter said. “No. She eats meat that has been provided by hunting communities.” 

“That’s kind of boring.”

“Oh my god,” Peter rubbed his temples. He heard the front door open and close behind them. 

“We ready to go?” asked Chris. 

“Yes. Forever ago.” Stiles opened up the passenger side door. “Are you coming too?” 

“No,” said Peter. “I have other things to do. Try not to smell delicious.” 

“Oh man, wish you would have told me before I rubbed all that bacon fat on my body,” Stiles said as he climbed into the Tahoe’s front seat.

“Ha ha,” said Peter. He looked at Chris. 

“I won’t let him get eaten,” Chris promised. He pressed a kiss to Peter’s cheek. 

As soon as the car disappeared around the corner Peter wiped at his nose. He couldn’t get rid of the bitter scent that clung to Stiles like a leech and filled the air with its acrid fumes. It wasn’t inhuman but it wasn’t pleasant either.

⫸⊷⧟⊶⫷

Talking to Stiles was easy when Peter was there. It was easy when Stiles talked whether or not anyone talked back. It was when Stiles sunk into one of his quiet, pensive states that Chris had no idea what to do with him. He wasn’t Allison, he had no interest in talking about schoolwork or friends. The few things Chris did want to ask about weren’t the kinds he could just bring up in casual conversation.

In the passenger seat Stiles chewed on his bottom lip and leaned his forehead against the glass. He watched the streets like a kid who’d never seen a suburb before, his eyes all wide and focused. It was as if he kept expecting something peculiar to leap out from behind the trees lining the road. His hands picked at the hem of his sweatshirt, how he had any intact clothes at all was a wonder. At least it was better than when he felt the need to touch and fiddle with anything and everything not nailed down. 

It was easy enough to ignore his little quirks and twitches in a large, spacious house but trapped in a car his movements were amplified by a thousand. Every jerk of his head or tap of his foot set Chris’ nerves on edge. As Peter so often reminded him it was just ADHD but that explanation didn’t sit right with him. He’d been to a lot of parent teacher conferences, he’d seen other kids with the same condition and knew something was off. 

The little white house they came to stood on the very edge of town. At first glance, any normal person would have spared it a second look. It was the only house at the very end of the street, facing out towards all its neighbors with the preserve at its back. The white paint was upkept and the cars in the driveway were shined to a polish. Bags of mulch and dirt lined a little garden around the sides of the house. A well-worn shovel lay beside the garden with mud still dripping from its tip. The garden it lay beside was dry and hadn’t been disturbed for some time. 

“It looks like a normal house,” Stiles said. He looked back at Chris with a small frown, his eyebrows tilted up like a dog denied a treat. 

“Check the windows,” Chris said as he shut off the ignition. 

Stiles looked back. As he watched Chris saw two fingers fit themselves between the blinds covering the window and spread them apart. The light inside was too dark to see but Chris felt the creeping, crawling feeling of eyes watching him.

“The windows are curtained,” Stiles said. “I can’t see anything through them. Wait.” Chris could see the thoughts moving inside his head as they played out on his face. Confusion, then wonder, then fear. When he looked back at Chris his eyebrows were furrowed and his frown had set in deep. “Why are the windows curtained on a nice spring day?” 

Chris patted Stiles’ shoulder and stepped out of the car. Stiles scuttled after him. 

The fingers in the blinds disappeared as he walked up the steps. Before he’d even raised his hand to know the door was inching open. A hazel eye peered at them from the narrow space between the door and its frame. The eye blinked at Chris, then at Stiles. 

“Mr. Christopher Argent,” said a female’s inside the house. The door widened a few inches more to reveal the aging face of a woman with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and blanched, almost grey skin. Her face lit up with a smile that stretched her lips from ear to ear. It wasn’t often Chris saw her without a layer of makeup concealing her natural tone, the sight always caught him a little off guard. It was too much like looking at a corpse. 

Despite her ghostly appearance she was well-known in the neighborhood. An active member of the community, Eleanor volunteered for the P.T.A., worked at the local nursing home, and spent her free time turning over corpses in her backyard. 

“Ms. Eleanor Walcott,” Chris tipped his head to her. “I was hoping we could have a chat.” 

“Ooooh,” she said. Her grin dropped a little. “That doesn’t sound good.” Her eyes drifted to the side. “Who is your little friend here?” 

“This is Stiles. He’s staying with Peter and I.” 

“Nice to meet you. Call me Eleanor,” she reached a slender hand through the door. Her fingers curled just a bit when they met the sun. 

“Oh, yeah. You too.” 

Chris put his hand on Stiles’ back before their hands could meet. “Maybe we could come inside?” 

Stiles hand dropped back down to his side. The little wheels behind his eyes turned as he eyed Chris with unspoken thoughts. 

“What do you want?” her grin diminished as she withdrew her hand. 

“Some bodies washed up in West Park a few weeks back.” 

Eleanor’s eyes crinkled as her grin returned to full customer-service smile. “If you need some ‘disposal services’ I’d-“ 

“Nothing like that. This isn’t the type of conversation we should be having out on the lawn.”

“Come inside then,” Eleanor said as she slowly retreated into the darkness of her home. 

Chris followed her, never taking more than a few steps in front of Stiles. The cold air hit him hard. His body shivered on reflex. Despite the presence of over half a dozen candles surrounding the living room most of its light came from a little fireplace on the back wall, from which hung a metal pot with soft billows of white steam pouring out of it. The fire never reached Chris through the chill. He crossed his arms over his chest as Eleanora closed the door behind them. The room was bathed in dark. 

“Oh god. I feel like I’m in a freezer,” said Stiles with a little choking noise. He pressed slightly closer to Chris until their elbows touched. 

“There’s a blanket on the sofa if you want it,” said Eleanor. 

“No thank you,” said Chris. “Sit down, Stiles.”

Stiles rubbed his arms as he made his way to the sofa nestled by the fireplace. He kicked his legs up onto the cushion and wrapped himself in a little ball. If they’d been anywhere but Eleanor’s Chris might have chastised him for putting his shoes on someone else’s furniture. 

If it bothered Eleanor she said nothing as she sat down on the armchair across from him. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled at them. The flames from the fireplace cast dark shadows on her face, contorting her smile into an inhuman thing and sinking her eyes into her face. “Bodies?” 

“Yes,” said Chris as he took his place beside Stiles. The warmth of Stiles’ arm next to his own was the only one he felt. “They washed up a few weeks back. Ribcages were chewed up like a dog.”

“Sounds more like a werewolf than one of my folk.”

“The meat had been licked clean from the bone. There were tiny laceration marks from whatever rough tongue did it.” 

“Again, Christopher, not really a wendigo M.O. If it had been us we’d have butchered them nicely and brought them back home for a nice meal. What about a werewolf?” 

“Not possible.” 

Eleanor leaned back and put her head on her hand. “You won’t even entertain the idea it was a wolf?” 

“All the ones I know have alibis.” 

“That’s never stopped you before. Besides, meat locker’s full. We don’t need to go scrounging around in the woods for some emaciated college girl, half drunk, and full of flies.” 

“Meat locker?” Stiles’ arms shivered. 

Eleanor winked at him. 

“I left a newspaper out in my car. Mind grabbing it for me?” Chris asked. He took his keys from his pocket and passed them over. 

“You didn’t have a newspaper in the car,” Stiles said.

“I put it there in the morning. It should be under the backseat but it might be in one of the cases in the trunk.” 

“Why can’t you-?” 

“Stiles.” 

“Geez, okay, fine. Freezing to death anyways.” Stiles took the keys and stood up, keeping his arms wrapped tight around his torso. He stumbled a little as he worked his way to the door, tripping his way through the darkness. 

Chris turned his head away as light spilled in through the doorway and then, a second later, was gone as Stiles disappeared back outside. 

“Oh, he’s cute,” purred Eleanor. “Sean would just eat him up.”

“Don’t even look at him. He’s not born anyways.”

“Oh don’t be that way, Chris.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. “You didn’t come here just to accuse me of nibbling on some rib cages, now did you? You _wanted_ me to look at him.” 

“I wanted you to smell him.” 

“Have you tried asking your beloved husband what he smells like?” 

“Yes.” 

“And what did he say?” 

“I’m not asking Peter right now, I’m asking you.” 

“You don’t believe him?” Eleanor tilted her head slightly to the side causing a sweep of auburn hair to fall across her face and cover her right eye. Between the strands he saw her iris’s shift and change until the hazel coloration gave way to a blanched yellow. Unlike a werewolf’s beta eyes, hers were completely glazed over with color, leaving no trace of a pupil behind. 

“My marriage is just as stable as it ever was,” Chris said. He fought the urge to reach for the tazer in his pocket. 

“Oh Chris.” She blinked and in an instant her eyes were back to normal. The grin cracked on her face. “What made you think I ever thought it wasn’t?” 

Chris crossed his arms over his chest. “I remember a certain vocal someone telling Peter to ‘keep the ‘natural’ in supernatural.’ You weren’t too happy when we got together, were you?” 

“It’s nothing personal. I’ve seen what your kind can do.” 

“I could say the same. Now, tell me about Stiles.”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “So touchy. What is it you want me to say? He’s just a regular teenager.” 

“Is that all he is?” 

“What makes you think he’s not?” 

“He was possessed.”

“Ah,” Eleanor leaned back on the sofa. “That explains it. He’s a little-,” she wrinkled her nose, “-well, not stale. I’d say freezer burned, a little cold and a little wrong, but he’s still warm on the inside.”

“So, he’s human?” 

“I didn’t say that. He’s mostly human. I’d spit him out if I found him in my stew, but he’s not all tainted.” 

“You shouldn’t be putting anyone in your stew.” 

“Of course, Chris. Of course.” She shrugged idly and flashed another smile, only this time her whitened teeth were pointed. “There were no bodies in West Park were there?”

Chris gave her a wry smile of his own, “there were over a hundred years ago.”

Eleanor’s smile softened into just a hint of genuine emotion. “I was younger then,” she said. 

The front door swung open once more. Chris held up his arms to shield his eyes from the encroaching light. 

“I’ve looked in every damn box and there is no newspaper,” Stiles said. 

“My mistake,” said Chris. He stood up. He blinked a little as his eyes adjusted. “I guess we’ll be leaving now.”

“What? But I didn’t even get to hear about the bodies!” 

“I’ll tell you about them on the ride home,” said Chris. “Come on Stiles, let’s get going.” 

Stiles shoved his hands back into his pockets and stood on the porch. He gave Eleanor a small, flickering smile and a weak wave goodbye. “Nice meeting you,” he said. 

“It was lovely having you,” said Eleanor as she led Chris to the door. Her pupils contracted to little pinpricks as they stepped into the sunlight.

“Thanks for your time,” said Chris. He nodded his head to her and began to close the door behind him. Stiles was already halfway to the car when Eleanor caught his arm. She leaned in so close the tip of her nose brushed his cheek. Her breath was unnaturally sweet. 

“I’ll tell you one more thing,” Eleanor whispered against his ear. “You should be careful about what teenagers get up to when they think they’re alone.”

“Is that the advice of a wendigo or a parent?”

“A little bit of both.” Eleanor winked and pulled back. She closed the door behind her and locked it with a click.

“So what happened?” Stiles asked as he slunk down into the passenger seat. 

“Nothing. The bodies were old and buried improperly.” 

“Well that’s boring.”

“Would you have rather stayed in school?”

“God no,” Stiles shook his head and drew his legs up. He was too lanky to fit easily on the seat but somehow he managed to compress his body in on itself. 

“Are you still cold?” Chris asked as he noticed a slight waiver in Stiles’s voice. Looking at him more closely he could see his teeth were chattering and his breath was coming out quick. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” said Stiles. “I just don’t like the cold.” 

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you wendigos don’t like heat.” 

“No, it’s fine. I’m just chilly.” 

“Alright,” said Chris with a small nod. He turned the heat up in the car a little.

⫸⊷⧟⊶⫷

Stiles winced as the musical bell of the diner rang above his head. A blast of cold air rushed over him as he wiped his dirty shoes on the welcome mat by the door. It didn’t do much good, the mat was already water-logged and scuffed.

His head swam like a fish in a river of pain. He couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus either, everything he looked at was just a blur of color and shape. He thought about ducking out and heading back to the house but that wasn’t really an option with Peter around, and Lydia would be after him in a second if he didn’t show up. He fumbled for the last pill in his pocket and swallowed it. It went down dry and heavy but the screaming behind his eyelids lessened. 

The kitchen door swung open spilling blue light over the counter. Lydia came through wearing her customary smile and her hair wrapped up in a messy bun behind her head. Her apron was smeared all down the front with white powder, a little even clung to her cheek. Her red lips turned down as she met his eyes. 

“And what do you think you’re doing here?” she crossed her arms over her powdered apron, sending up a little puff of white in the air. “You think you can just go missing from school, not even a text message, and then show up here and expect me to feed you?” 

Stiles ducked his head and shoved his shaking hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Chris let me go with him to meet a wendigo. Did you think I could just pass that up?” He looked up through his lashes. Every word felt heavy on his dry tongue; his voice creaked along with it. 

“You should have messaged me.” 

“He let me meet a _wendigo_ ,” Stiles put his hand over his mouth as a yawn crept from his throat. 

Lydia’s eyes softened. “Oh, just go sit down already. I’ll be back with you in a second.” 

“Okay.”

Stiles walked to the end of the diner, to the little booth in the corner he’d come to know as Chris and Peter’s. He slunk down into the side usually reserved for Peter. There were little marks under the table from where Peter’s claws dug in deep and scratched their way down. It was a gentle reminder that for as docile as he might be otherwise, his skin was mask for a predator.

He kicked his feet up onto the seat next to him and curled up with his head leaning on the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. The chill of the diner sent a tingle down his spine like a spider with too many legs pressing against his every nerve. His own heartbeat was so loud in his throat he expected to see all eyes on him. He still couldn’t remember the diner from before but Peter said he’d been of great interest to them when he’d shared a soul with someone else. Now, even with his rabbit heart, he was just the same as any other human who came stumbling in on accident.

His eyes were almost shut when Lydia slid into the booth across from him. She pushed a clear glass of water across the table to him. 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she said with a frown. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles took the glass and chugged half of it in three gulps. The chemical taste of Adderall washed from his tongue and down his parched throat. 

As soon as he put the glass down Lydia was leaning over the table. She brushed her thumb over his forehead and pushed his eyelid up. Her skin was warm and smelled sweet, like pie. 

Stiles blinked shook her hand away. “I mean it. I’m fine. Chris and Peter just keep me up at night.” 

“Your pupils are dilated,” she said as she sat back down in her seat. 

“So?” 

“I wasn’t born yesterday. How much Adderall have you had?” 

“The usual amount.” Stiles picked at the hem of his sweatshirt. The little fabrics were already falling apart. He’d thrown away most of his clothes at the Whittemore’s place, the ones that smelled like rot, at least. No matter how many times he washed them the smell wouldn’t go away. Derek said he couldn’t smell anything, but he’d been breathing through his mouth.

“How much is ‘the usual amount’?”

“Enough to get me through the day. Can you blame me? Isaac won’t stop staring at me. It’s so goddamn unsettling. Adderall makes me feel better.”

“It makes you think you feel better. Have you seen how Jackson glares at me?” 

“He does that to me, too. I just don’t get the underlying sexual tension that goes along with it.” 

Lydia barked a laugh. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be at lacrosse practice?” 

Stiles shook his head. “Coach told me to let him know when I’m ready to come back, but there’s only a couple months left of school. What’s even the point?” 

“You used to love lacrosse.” 

“I know,” said Stiles. He looked down at his glass and thumbed over his sleeve. “It’s just that … I don’t really see a point in it. I’m too tired to get out of bed somedays, and the rest of them I can’t fall asleep for even an hour.”

“So, fatigue, restlessness, lethargy, dry mouth. Yeah, you’re doing just fine there, buddy.”

“I come to school-“ 

“Most days.” 

“-I stay awake. I don’t get into trouble. What else do you want from me?”

“Mostly, I just want to see you getting better.” 

“I am getting better.” 

“Then why aren’t you sleeping?” 

“Oh I don’t know; I was possessed by an evil spirit, my head’s too quiet, I’m in a new house with two people who are practically strangers, and, oh yeah, and my dad is still dead.” He reached for his glass and could barely hold it still enough to lift it to his lips. He took a long swallow and wished it had the bitter taste of something stronger. “I’m getting out of bed in the morning. Can’t that be enough for now?”

Lydia looked away from him. Her hands were folded on the table, her fingers rubbed over her knuckles, and her eyebrows were just a bit arched. When she noticed Stiles gaze she gave him a faint smile. 

“For now,” she said. “I just want you to be happy.” 

“I will be,” said Stiles, even if he didn’t feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading n.n if you liked it please leave a comment. They help me stay motivated, like a warm hug <3


	3. Chapter 3

The Hale-Argent household was filled with three things – secrets, weapons, and alcohol. The first two things were hidden in the basement behind a steel door secured by electronic keypads and god knew what other defenses. The alcohol, however, was readily on display in Chris’s study. There were even a few bottles of wine in the kitchen, and though Peter said they were just for cooking they got lower every other night and yet, Stiles never saw them used.

As he lay in his bedroom, Chris and Peter’s marital bickering floated up to him through a narrow crack in the doorway. His bed was soft, softer than any he’d ever had before. His blue and white comforter he’d had since the seventh grade didn’t look right laying on top of it. The corners barely touched the edges of the sheets but at least it smelled like home. 

His things still weren’t fully unpacked, but nobody commented on it. The cardboard boxes sat where they’d always sat, still taped, waiting for the day he moved back into his old house. That day wouldn’t come, but he could hold out hope. 

If monsters existed, then so could miracles.

The tell-tale sound of the front door opening and closing made him sit up. It slammed shut with a force that meant Chris had done it. Peter was always sneaking, whether it was a conscious decision or not Stiles didn’t know, but his movements around the house were hardly so advertised. 

Stiles counted to ten and went to the window. Chris and Peter’s bodies were silhouettes against the Tahoe’s headlights. He could just make out the outline of Peter’s hair and the shape of Chris’s shoulders as he tossed a duffel bag into the backseat.

As Chris got into the car Peter looked up. His face wore the blank, black mask of night as his head tilted to the side. The spot where Peter’s eyes should be glowed red at him. A black hand raised itself and waved.

Stiles gulped and waved back.

Peter winked and got into the car. Stiles could feel the smirk on his face.

They wouldn’t be back for some time. Their excursions lasted anywhere from a couple hours to an entire night, sometimes they returned home covered in dark, viscous liquid. Other times they were clean but their bodies – Chris’s at least – were scratched and clothes were torn. Once Chris came in with his entire leg soaked in mud and missing half his shirt. 

_“Don’t ask,”_ Peter snarled as they trudged upstairs without another word. Their feet left ugly puddles on the staircase as they went. 

It wasn’t worth even trying to get answers out of them. They’d shut him down as soon as he uttered a ‘what happened.’ It made his angry sometimes, to know of all the things that were out there, of what they could do to Chris and Peter, and how little they told him about them.

As soon as the car was around the corner Stiles dropped onto his knees and felt with one arm beneath his bed. A few books stolen from Chris’s study and a well-worn lacrosse jersey hid his secret prize underneath. His fingers gripped tight around the cool neck of the bottle as he pulled it out. It was lighter than he remembered, only a thin layer of amber whiskey pooled like resin in the bottom. He downed the last of it in a quick gulp, quick enough it didn’t even touch his tongue.

He stood up with the empty bottle clutched in his hands. He checked the window just to be safe and headed across the hall to Chris’s study. The rich mahogany door was cracked open just a hair as it always was. Stiles pushed it open and stepped inside, not bothering to close it as he did. The room was lined on two sides with shelves of books both new and old. Some had bent spines and worn covers while yet others were pristine in their glossy, printed jackets. A few spots were empty from where Stiles had removed some. Chris was more than happy to let him, though he cautioned, ‘don’t believe what you read. It’s better to get firsthand accounts.’ And yet Chris was still so reluctant to answer his questions.

The books had done nothing to lessen the fear in Stiles’ heart. He abandoned them when he realized it didn’t matter if he referenced and cross-referenced everything he read with Chris and Peter, it wouldn’t stop the monsters inside from slitting his throat if they wanted too. It wouldn’t help him if he found himself with his arms up to his elbows stuck in a kelpie’s flank or a feral werewolf broke into the house while he was sleeping. All the knowledge in the world wouldn’t protect him then.

At least he had the alcohol to make him feel safe, as flickering as that safety was like a worn light bulb casting its shadows more often than not. The false security of his intoxicated state helped lure him into elusive sleep. That’s what his dad said anyway, _‘it’s okay if it just helps you sleep.’_

He knew better than to take any of the alcohol on prominent display. There were wines mixed in with the liquors in all shades ranging from deep cherry to bright amber, verging on yellow or orange. They were kept in two cabinets behind Chris’s desk encased in glass and sparkling without a speck of dust to dull their shine.

There was a bottle of whiskey already half drunk on the desk beside a ledger book containing all of Chris’s arms deals. He knew better than to even touch it. Chris would notice, and if he didn’t Peter would. They were obnoxiously observant in all the wrong areas.

He set his empty bottle on the desk and crouched behind it with his back against the chair. The bottom shelf held smaller bottles that weren’t quite as polished. He reached over the bottles to the very last one in the back – the one Chris probably wouldn’t notice. It clinked against the others as he lifted it up and over and out through the narrow space. The amber liquid inside swirled around as he moved it.

As soon as the bottle was free from the shelf he twisted the cap off in a deft motion and took a long swig. Caramel and toffee tempted his nose as he lifted it to his lips but the taste didn’t follow. For as pretty as it was, from bottle to aroma, it burned going down. His guts clenched in protest as his tongue and throat were seared by the alcoholic taste drowned in burnt oranges. The people who called it ‘smooth’ could kiss his ass.

He wiped at his mouth and looked at the bottle more closely. On the front was a white label with the name _Widow Jane_ written in the center. Stiles snorted and picked himself up. He grabbed the empty bottle on his way out. He licked at his lips and caught another burning flare of flavor on his tongue. Already he was starting to like it.

He went down the stairs with his prize clutched to his chest and the empty bottle swinging in his hand.

The house was dark, with only a few lights on here and there to illuminate the expansive areas and high-vaulted ceilings. His steps echoed as he walked through the entryway to the front door. Without Peter and Chris to fill it with their noise and their presence it was still beautiful, but empty and imposing. Like a crypt. He locked the door on the way out, but wondered who would be stupid enough to rob a house belonging to a werewolf.

Outside, the night air was dry but not yet cold. The soft pulls of a struggling breeze brushed against his cheeks. Stiles took another swig of the whiskey and dropped his empty bottle into the trash bin by the curb. Looking out at the street he saw no movement or even a stir from the rest of the homes, not even a curtain swayed in the barely-there wind. Still, Stiles kept the bottle down by his side where it couldn’t be seen by a wandering eye. He walked around to the back of the house where he could sneak along the privacy fences all the way to the preserve.

He took the occasional sloppy drink as he walked, each time reigniting the flames in his mouth. By the time he reached the trail his head was so fuzzy he almost kept on walking. It was only by sheer luck his head swayed in the direction of the trail marker and he remembered to turn. He left behind the well-lit streetlights and entered the brush with his bottle gripped tight and his head held high, if a little wobbly.

The loose dirt and leaf litter crunched as he followed the unmaintained path deeper between the trees where the branches crowded out the sky and the ground scratched at his legs with forgotten vegetation, starved but struggling up and out. He stumbled over vines that twined the path and rotten logs that absorbed rain like sponges and sprouted lichen from between the cracks in their bark.

Stiles’ whiskey soaked tongue went dry at the sight. His jaw clenched up until his teeth hurt. He jerked his head away from the log and took a hopeless drink. He wiped at the phantom claws that pried at his mouth. A dying wind hissed in the grass. From his core, a deep chill spread throughout his body.

“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not thinkin’ about it.” He stumbled and jerked away from the log and kept his eyes on the ground. It would be easier if the ground were inclined to keep still. “There’s nothing here,” he told himself. “I’m alone. All alone. By myself. Don’t need no one.”

He hugged the bottle to his chest and breathed through his mouth until the memory of Peter’s hands and rasping voices receded back into the parts of his brain he ignored in the day. Peter wasn’t a monster. He was just a guy who smirked too much and loved his husband, but at night his brain didn’t care.

Stiles’ will to walk depleted with a few more staggered steps. The pain of his leg hitting a rock barely registered in his mind as he dropped to his knees. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. The dirt beneath him was cold and hard. He put one arm behind his head and in the other he cradled his bottle. The stars above swirled but never touched.

He closed his eyes and his body felt like he was spinning.

“Stiles?”

Stiles shuddered as the hallucination invaded his ears. The voice was so real, so concerned. On reflex, he counted his fingers but there were only five. 

“Stiles?” Footsteps crunched in the forest next to him. Something rough patted his cheek. 

Stiles looked and his heart jumped into his throat. Two eyes as pale as the moon peered down at him. They too joined the swirling of the sky. 

“Der’k?”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s dangerous out here?”

Derek’s hand fell away from Stiles’s cheek, leaving a patch of cold where its warmth had been. The blue in his stare melted until they were too dark to see in the fading light. 

Stiles’ own eyes wandered shamelessly over Derek’s face as he crouched there in the light of the moon; shadowed as he was the set of his jaw and angle of his brows sent a warmth pooling in Stiles’ belly that he couldn’t attribute to the alcohol. 

“Chris says it’s safe on the path,” he said.

Derek snorted. “Because Chris always knows what’s right.”

“He’s smart.”

“He pretends to be.”

“He’s nice.”

“He tries to be.”

“You don’t like him?” Stiles tilted his head to the side.

“He’s fine,” said Derek.

“That sounds like you don’t like him.”

“I said he’s fine.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I asked you first.” Derek’s eyes narrowed as he sat cross-legged beside Stiles’ head.

“Um,” Stiles closed his eyes and struggled for an explanation but the cogs in his head weren’t turning. He reopened his eyes and gave a faltering smile.

Derek’s eyes scanned over Stiles’ body in a way that would have made him self-conscious if he’d been in another state, and if he hadn’t just done the very same thing to Derek. His eyes found the bottle, still cradled in Stiles’ arms like a baby.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.”

Derek leaned over him and plucked the bottle easily from its place. 

“Hey! Give it back!” Stiles sat up onto his elbows. A wave of dizziness coursed down to the pit of his stomach and he fell back down to the ground, wincing as his head hit the dirt. “Ow!”

Derek ignored him in favor of scrutinizing the bottle. His eyes darkened as he read the label. 

“No wonder you reek.”

“Give it back!” Stiles took a swipe but his hand didn’t go anywhere close to where the bottle dangled temptingly in the air. 

“Where did you get it?” Derek looked back at him, an unspoken accusation in the way his eyes pinned Stiles to the floor. “Out with it.”

“Found it.”

“Liar.”

“You gonna tattle?”

“Am I in grade school?”

Stiles swallowed and knitted his hands together on his chest. “Took it from Chris’ study. It was just sitting there. S’not like he was drinkin’ it, ya know?” The words came out like putty on his tongue. The first brick of guilt weighed in his throat like lead. Stealing was wrong, he knew that, but so was losing a parent and that happened more than once.

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek put the bottle back in his lap.

“It’s expensive. He’s going to kill you..”

“It doesn’t taste expensive. You want some?”

Derek grimaced. “No thanks.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s shit.”

“How d’ya know? You just said it was expensive!”

“Whiskey always tastes like shit.”

Stiles scoffed. “You’re no fun.”

“Not my kind of fun.” 

“Better than sitting at home. Chris and Peter just argue. Not a lot, not hate-hate arguing but like if Chris wants coffee, then Peter wants tea and if Chris wants to watch T.V. then Peter want, Peter wants,” he racked his brain for the words but what gears had still been grinding before were firmly halted. He blinked and looked over at Derek. “What’s the opposite of T.V.? The uh, paper things? You flip ‘em an’ you learn shit?”

“Do you mean books?” Derek asked with a tilted frown and an upward quirk of his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, books,” Stiles nodded. “Peter wants books. I like books but there’s nothing good in them. Nothing that can help.” Stiles bobbed his head and tried to sit up. His hands found the earth but when he tried to sit the world around him rocked back and forth like a boat at sea. As the trees spun left the ground went right. The whiskey rolled in his stomach and fought to free itself as the spinning came to a halt.

“If you throw up on me,” Derek warned with an ice-blue glare. 

“Help me,” Stiles said.

Derek grunted and grabbed him by his collar. He forced him up into a sitting position. His hands were rough but without the intention, like an overstuffed teddy bear. He was manhandled into an awkward slouch with his legs crossed and his elbows on his knees. As the rocking of the foliage waves ebbed so did the beast rolling in his belly. 

“Better?”

Stiles scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek leaned forward and pried the drink from Stiles’s hands.

“Hey! That’s mine. You had your chance to get some earlier, bub.”

“It’s Chris’s and you’ve had enough.” Derek set the bottle out of Stiles’ reach behind them.

“How d’you know?”

“You forgot books existed.”

Heat rose to Stiles’ cheeks. “Does it look like I work in a library?”

“Do you do anything?”

“I go to school. Some days. Most days. No one cares if I show up.” He looked down at his sleeve and picked a little at the fabric. 

“Just how long were you planning to drink yourself sick out here?”

“I dunno. Maybe ‘till the sun comes up. I was just gonna play it by year.”

“Ear.”

“What?”

“Ear not year.”

“Oh, go read some more of your precious books.” Stiles stuck his tongue out.

“You leave your tongue out someone might rip it off. How are you going to get home?”

“Walk it.” Stiles shrugged.

Derek furrowed his brows. “You can’t even sit up without help.”

“I’ll get there eventually.”

“I’m taking you home.”

“No.” Stiles narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Stiles!”

“Nuh-uh.” Stiles jerked his head to the side and glared at the tree. Nausea twisted in his belly. He needed to stop moving so much.

“I could pick you up and throw you over my shoulder if I wanted.”

“I’ll throw up on you. I’ll do it. I swear I will!”

“Are you a literal child?”

“Yes!”

Derek lunged forward like a cat on a mouse. He caught Stiles’ shirt in his firm hands and pulled him off the ground with a yank. He said nothing but from his throat came low, guttural noises. The birds in the trees stilled their songs as it echoed through the branches.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Stiles flailed. His head lolled as the trees went one way and the ground with another. He slumped against Derek’s chest and clenched his jaw as his stomach noisily protested the sudden upheaval.

Derek’s hands found his lower back and propped him upright. “Do not throw up on me.”

“Then don’t go yanking me around!” He clenched his eyes until the dizziness faded. When he reopened them he glared. “Could you not?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Unless you can bring my dad back, then I _can’t_ go home.” The words splashed down his back like ice water. His body stiffened. His lip throbbed as he bit into it.

Derek’s hold on him loosened. The look in his eyes was too painful to watch. It was the same one Peter had when they picked him up from the hospital, and the same one when he noticed Stiles still hadn’t unpacked his things. It made his stomach roll, or maybe it was just nausea.

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back. His eyes flickered to Derek’s. In the short time he’d looked away the sympathetic look became masked by a layer of stoicism, but the cracks showed through when he spoke.

“Where do you want to go?” Derek asked.

“Nowhere.”

“You’re not staying here,” it was more of a plea than a demand.

“What are you going to tell Peter and Chris when you show up with me. They don’t like you out here either, do they?”

Derek didn’t answer.

“You don’t know,” Stiles said. “So, I guess I won’t be going home.”

“Fine, then I won’t take you there.”

Derek brushed past Stiles, nudging into his shoulder as he did and picked the whiskey bottle up from off the ground. He dusted the dirt from the glass and without a second look began walking down the trail, whiskey bottle swinging in his hand. 

“Where’re you going?”

“Home.”

“But that’s mine.”

“Guess you’ll just have to follow me.”

“Fuck you,” said Stiles, as he staggered back to Derek.

Derek waited for him to make his slow way over and put a steadying hand on his shoulder as he got close.

“Throw up in my car and I’ll throw you out,” he said as they walked back to the street together.

⊷⧟⊶

The waters of the reservoir spread through the preserve like dark paint, still and glossy. Only the gentle lapping at the shoreline gave evidence that it ever moved at all. The frogs that used it as their breeding ground sang their discordant melody throughout the night, reaching crescendo when the clouds covered the moon like a silver, silken curtain and drowned the forest in black.

A rippling in the water alerted Peter to the presence of something much larger than a frog gliding through the shallows towards him. It moved slow and steady, nearly invisible save for the pair of glistening green eyes.

“Come here, darling.” Peter dipped his hand into the water. The chill went through his fingertips like a knife straight to the bone. It didn’t matter what time of year it was, the reservoir was always freezing. 

The little body moved closer. The eyes stayed trained on Peter’s face while it hovered just below the surface. Tentatively, it’s raised its little head. 

“Aren’t you doing well for yourself?” Peter purred. He scratched the Afanc’s cheek and earned a quizzical chitter. “It’s our boy.” 

“Good. Don’t play too long, I don’t want it following us home.” Chris’s voice cut through the forest’s songs. His arm hung over the side of the Tahoe’s open window, face awash in the blue-white glow of his cellphone.

“You don’t want to check on anything else while we’re here?” The two hour drive through rocky terrain and uncut wilderness meant their visits were few and far between. Back when the Hale pack was large and he was young he used to love covering it every fall with leaves and debris so no one would mistake it for a hiking trail. As an adult, he dreaded it. 

“It can wait,” said Chris. “It’s cold and I’d rather be in bed.”

“Christopher, you once made me come out here in the middle of a snowstorm so we could examine the trail cams, but on a relatively warm, seventy-degree night you want to go home?” 

“Are you complaining?” Chris’ eyes lifted from his phone. The corner of his mouth twitched up. 

“I suppose not. I’ll just assume you’ve gone temporarily insane.” Peter stood, brushing pieces of grass and dirt from his knees. The Afanc made a quizzical noise and lifted its head above the water. Peter slid his phone from his pocket and snapped a quick photo. The flash sent the Afanc scurrying back into the depths, but not before it’s beady little eyes were captured in still frame. 

Peter scoffed. He wiped his wet hand on his pants and pulled his phone from his pocket. The frogs stuttered their song, the birds went quiet, and the Afanc’s fur bristled as the brilliant white flashed from the phone. A second later the world was dark again but the Afanc was gone. Peter caught one last glimpse of its tail as it disappeared under the surface once again. 

“What was that for?” Chris asked. 

“Allison wanted a picture.” 

“She’s texting you again?” 

“She told Victoria it’s your work phone.” 

“Ah. Well tell her to delete the picture when she’s done.”

“Fine, but it just looks like a bad photoshop.” Peter typed out the message and slid the phone back into his pocket. When he looked up Chris’ eyes were on the tree line; he held his phone idly in one hand as the screen started to fade. 

“Allie could have asked me what they looked like. I have lots of illustrations-“ 

“She didn’t want an illustration, she wanted a picture. She also didn’t want a lecture about how dangerous it is to keep ‘evidence.’ Besides, she’s not talking to you right now.” 

“Why not?” 

“She knows you took Stiles to catch the Afanc.” 

“Ah,” Chris’ face darkened. “And how exactly does she know that?” 

“I didn’t tell her.”

“It’s not like Stiles called her to brag.” 

“Maybe he didn’t have to. They’re both friends with Lydia.” 

“Lydia. Of course,” Chris rubbed a hand over her face. “I’ll make it up to her when she comes back. We’ll think of something safe for them to do.”

“Well, you could introduce her to Eleanor.” 

“No.”

Peter barked a laugh. “So, Stiles can but Allison can’t?” 

“It’s different and you know it.” 

Peter walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door with a yank. 

“It really isn’t.”

The car pulled off the grass and back onto the trail. Even with the bright lights on the area surrounding the reservoir was thick and clustered, it was difficult to see anything other than the trees on their sides and the waters just beyond them. The tires squelched in the mud as it jostled its way down the path but no other sounds came from the car. The silence stretched between. It wouldn’t have bothered Peter save for the way Chris gripped the wheel and stared only at the road ahead. Every moment he kept expecting Chris to speak, his eyes would flicker over to Peter’s, his lips would part, but no words ever came. As the time stretched end and the dense forests gave way to light foliage and new saplings it grew to be too much.

“Just talk, Chris,” Peter said as the gravel path gave way to smooth roads. Street lights appeared in the distance, quiet beacons welcoming them back to civilization. 

“Hm?” Chris asked in a tone far too sharp to be casual.

“Talk to me.” 

“About what?”

“About whatever’s bothering you.” 

“Nothing’s bothering me.” They turned onto better lit streets and the worn lines crinkling Chris’ eyes were plain to see. 

“Then what happened?”

“With what?” 

“Eleanor. You haven’t said anything about it and that’s not like you.” 

If it weren’t the first thing Peter smelt when he woke, and the last thing he smelt when he went to bed he may not have noticed the subtle shift in Chris’ scent. What was usually masked underneath coffee breath, muddy boots, and worn leather jackets turned sharp like spoilt milk.

“She told me Stiles is fine.”

“Are you disappointed?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Then what’s bothering you?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Bullshit, Christopher.” Peter dropped his hand and turned to look at Chris. “I thought getting someone else’s opinion would help, but obviously it hasn’t. You’re being weird. Stop it.”

“I let Stiles go on a hunt with us. It’s not like I’m ignoring him.” 

“Oh no, you haven’t been ignoring him. You’ve been keeping an eye on him.” 

“I’m just trying to make him feel at home.” 

“You brought him with us because it was a full moon. You took him to see Eleanor because you wanted her to tell you something was wrong. You wouldn’t have taken Allison, not even to catch an Afanc.” 

Chris clenched his jaw. 

“Allison’s my child. It’s-” 

“Don’t say it’s different. You wouldn’t have wanted Derek to go and he’s not ‘yours’ either.”

Chris swallowed. He stopped the car and pulled the key from the ignition. 

“I’m not disappointed Stiles isn’t a supernatural.” 

Peter waited for him to continue. The automatic lights came on as they pulled into the driveway, aside from that the only light came from Stiles’ window in the room above. Peter watched and waited for the shadow of a human to  
appear. It never did. 

“We’re home,” Chris said. He made no move to get up or even open the car door.

“I see that.” 

Chris turned and looked Peter dead in the eyes. “Even if he’s not supernatural there’s something wrong with him.”

“Well, duh, Chris. His dad’s dead and he was possessed by a monster.” 

“Beyond that. I know you can sense it too.”

“Well, what do you want to do? Make his eggs with mountain ash and pour mistletoe in his orange juice?” 

“No, but if we don’t know what’s wrong with him then how the hell are we supposed to fix him?” 

“Ah,” said Peter. His eyes softened. “He’s grieving. It takes time. You should know that better than anyone.” 

“I don’t like sitting around, waiting for things to get better.” 

“I know. Lord, do I know, but right now you have to.” 

Chris let out a heavy breath. “Fine,” he said. He opened the car door and stepped out into the night. 

“For what it’s worth I don’t smell any tears,” Peter said as he got out and followed Chris up the steps. 

Chris held the door open as they made their way into the house. Peter brushed past him, just close enough to mask some of the sour-milk smell with a bit of his own. Chris’ hand touched his back as he passed. 

“We should let Stiles know we’re home.” 

Peter tuned his ears to the upstairs hallway. The curtains ruffled, some of the floors creaked, a clock in Chris’s study ticked, but there were no heart beats. 

“I don’t think he wants company right now.” said Peter. He flared his nostrils and caught the faded, slightly salty scent of Stiles hovering in the entryway. He shrugged off his coat and drapped it over the hook on the wall. 

Chris’ face fell slightly. “Is he upset?” 

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. The opposite, actually.”

“If you don’t tell me what it is I’ll go up there and see for myself.” 

Peter grinned. “I dare you.” 

“Just tell me.” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “He’s a teenager. He’s alone in his room. He has a laptop, his heartbeats fast, his breathings uneven, and I don’t hear any music. What do _you_ think he’s doing up there?” 

“Oh,” Chris’ eyes widened. He hid his grimace behind a fist. “I suppose that’s – that’s normal, for someone his age.” 

“Don’t act like you’ve never done it, prude. Hell, I’ve helped-“ 

“Peter.” 

“What?” 

“That’s disgusting.”

“You had no problem with it two nights ago.” 

“Yeah, well I don’t want to think about Stiles doing it,” Chris hung his jacket besides Peter’s and stepped out of his boots. 

“I’m sure he doesn’t want you thinking about him doing it either,” Peter said. 

“So, stop bringing it up.” 

“I can’t, you’re fixated on it.” 

“I am not.” 

“Then why won’t you let it go?” 

“You’re the one who keeps talking.” 

“Because you won’t let it go. At least you don’t have to smell it. It’s like-“ 

“I don’t want to know, Peter.” 

“Neither do I but I don’t get a choice.”

“If you don’t stop _we’re_ never doing it again.” 

“You’re such a spoil sport.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for reading, if you liked please leave a comment, theyre like warm hugs to me n.n
> 
> The next chapter might take a little bit longer for me to get out, im in the process of moving and starting a new job. Thanks for the patience <3


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles stomach churned. Derek’s arms wrapped around his waist as he dragged him down the empty hall. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he was too focused on where he placed his feet to pay any attention to it. 

“Just go forward,” Derek grunted. “It’s the direction right in front of you.” 

“Easy for you to say! The floor’s movin’ all around.” 

“Stop shouting.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Stay here.” Derek’s arm fell away from Stiles’ waist and reappeared on his shoulders. “Don’t move.” 

“Stay here or move forward, which is it?” Stiles was manhandled back until his shoulders pressed against a cool, concrete wall. The chill sent an unpleasant tingle skittering down his spine. 

“Stay _here_.”

“Where are you going?” Stiles blinked. A large wooden door on a steel track blocked the only room in the hall. It stretched from the bottom of the floor to a few inches below the ceiling. 

“I’m just getting the door,” Derek grunted. 

“You said you were taking me home,” Stiles whined as he slid down the wall. His head lolled to one side. 

“This is my home.” 

Derek grabbed the wrought-iron handle and rolled the door open with a soft, mechanical noise. He wedged it back against the wall. Inside Stiles could just make out a couple of sofas and a large, glass window. 

“I told you to stay put,” Derek said when he turned his head back to Stiles.

“I fell down.” 

“Uh huh.” Derek rolled his eyes and walked back to Stiles’ side. 

“Who’re you talking to?” A mess of golden-brown hair appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white shirt way too big for him. Isaac’s eyes met Stiles and his neutral expression dropped to a frown. “What’s he doing here?”

The liquor-laced warmth in Stiles’ stomach chilled like ice water. 

“I could ask you the same thing, buddy,” he said, pointing a finger. “Shouldn’t you be at home?” 

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Enough,” Derek said. He crouched by Stiles’ side and stuck one arm under his legs and the other around his waist. He lifted him up like a small child and held him to his chest. 

Stiles squeaked as the ground disappeared below him. As he was carried over the threshold into the apartment Stiles stuck his tongue out at Isaac. 

“Can you drop him?” Isaac asked, closing the door behind him as they went inside. He glowered at Stiles and the back of Derek’s head. 

“No.” 

“Why’s Isaac here?” 

Stiles dug his fingernails into the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt as he was carried inside the loft. He bit his lip as the alcohol sloshed in his stomach. 

Derek wordlessly lowered him down onto a sofa with his head on the arm rest and his feet on a cushion. The way Derek hovered over him, brows slightly furrowed, hands readjusting his feet, brought a cold memory bubbling to the surface of Stiles’ mind. 

An ashen cellar flashed in front of him, bleeding feet, Derek’s blue eyes glowering in the dark as he picked shards of glass from Stiles’ heel. 

Stiles breath hitched. 

Derek was on him in an instant. “What’s wrong?” 

Stiles clenched his eyes shut and breathed through his nose. He let the alcohol churning around in his belly overpower his senses for a moment. When he reopened his eyes, Isaac hovered behind Derek’s shoulder. He looked at Stiles like an insect crawling on his plate.

“Fine,” Stiles gritted. “Nauseous.” 

“He’s tanked,” said Isaac. 

“Get him some water.” 

“I don’ want water,” said Stiles. The phone buzzed in his pocket again. He grappled for a second with disobedient hands before he managed to grab hold of the device and pull it out. Flicking the lock screen open a blurry image of two little eyes filled the screen. 

“It’s my Afflack!” warmth bubbled from within his stomach and cracked a smile on his face. The intrusive thoughts stayed, but quieted if only slightly.

“Your what?” Derek raised a brow. 

Stiles showed him his phone. 

“An Afanc?” Derek squinted as he looked at the screen. 

“Yeah, that thingy,” Stiles sighed. “I helped catch it. Peter says he’s gon’ be dangerous someday, but what’s Peter know?”

“Peter and Chris took you on a hunt?” 

“Mhm, it was cool.”

“Here’s your water,” said Isaac, setting the glass on the table. “What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing. I found him like this.” 

“I don’t want water,” Stiles grunted when Derek put the glass near his lips. “I want to go to sleep.” 

He grabbed one of the throw pillows and hugged it to his chest. A disconcerting feeling wiggled through his stomach like a worm. He hated the way his pillow smelled. It was too new, like it had just come from the packaging. He wanted old worn pillows with a little stain from his juice on one corner and frays all around the edges.

“You can’t go to sleep,” said Derek. “You’ll go into a coma.” 

Isaac snorted. 

“That’s concussions, not getting shit-faced. He’s only gonna sober up once he sleeps it off anyways. What’d he drink?”

“Whiskey.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Isaac chuckled. “He’s gonna be wrecked in the morning.” 

“How do we stop that?” 

“Ibuprofen?” Isaac shrugged. “Water, sleep, and painkillers.” 

“I don’t have any painkillers. I don’t need them.” 

“Then I guess just water and sleep.” 

Derek sighed.

“Why was he drinking anyways?” 

“Cause I’m sad,” Stiles blurted. “I’m not gonna see my dad again and my friend turned out to be a huge fucking psycho monster,” Stiles said. “You’re lucky your dad’s shit because you don’t have to be upset when he dies.” 

Isaac winced. “Wow, you’re even an asshole when you’re drunk.” 

“Could you give us some space?” said Derek, looking back at him. 

“How? It’s an open floor plan.” 

“There’s an upstairs. Where your bed is?” 

“It’s not a bed it’s a-“ 

“Isaac.” 

“Alright, fine.” Isaac gave a lasting look over his shoulder as he walked to the spiral staircase at the end of the room. When he took the steps he raised his middle finger, but Derek’s eyes were focused elsewhere. 

Stiles dropped his head back onto the armrest and blinked up at Derek. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“I’m really sad, Derek.” 

“I know.” 

“But, alcohol made me feel better but then I feel like shit?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been told it does.” 

Stiles wiped the wetness from his eyes onto his sleeve. “How do I stop being sad?” 

“I don’t know,” said Derek. “Just go to sleep, okay?” 

“Okay,” Stiles said, hugging the pillow tight to his chest. 

Derek stood and pulled the blanket down from the back of the couch and draped it over Stiles’ shoulders.

⊷⧟⊶

In the morning Stiles’ throat was scratched like cat litter and his stomach was made of shrapnel and gasoline. The bitter taste bathing his tongue was tempered only by the pounding of a jackhammer against his skull. He couldn’t even find the strength to lift his head let alone open his eyes.

“Wake up sleepyhead.” 

A blunt fingernail dug into Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles grunted and buried his head in the crook of his elbow. He licked his dry tongue over cracked lips. 

“Get up.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“You want water or not?” 

Stiles creaked one eye open. He winced as the light slammed his skull with another burst of pain. At night the windows had been beautiful, in the morning they were hell. 

Isaac sat on his knees in front of the sofa holding a glass of water. 

Stiles reached for it only to have it pulled away. “I swear to god,” he breathed. “I will kill you.” 

“Answer a question.” 

“Fine.” The word tore through his throat like steel wool. He propped himself up on his elbows as Isaac handed over the glass. He gulped it all down in a matter of seconds. 

“Who knows?” 

Stiles lowered the glass and licked his lips. “What are you talking about?”

“Who knows?” Isaac lowered his voice to a quiet hiss, “about my family?” 

“I don’t,” Stiles clenched his eyes shut as another hammer-like pain went through him. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb. I know that, that thing that was inside of you- it knew things about me. It told you things. What did it say? Who did it tell?” 

“We weren’t pillow talk pals. It didn’t tell me shit.” 

“It knew about my dad.” 

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles sat up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“He went to get food. Answer the question. Tell me what you know.”

“All I know is that my brain is on fucking fire and my tongue tastes like kitty litter so back the fuck off,” Stiles said. He slammed the glass down on the coffee table hard enough to make a bang. 

Isaac flinched.

Stiles winced. His stomach turned with nausea and guilt. “Look, he didn’t tell me anything, okay? I just … felt stuff through him.”

For a second things were quiet, then Isaac asked, “what did it feel about me?” 

Stiles sighed and drew his knees up to his chest. 

“It felt dark and cold. It knew your house had something bad in it. It was like a, sort of like a spider web, but even the flies were just smaller spiders.”

Isaac’s eyes widened then narrowed. “That’s bullshit.” 

“Hey, you asked.” 

“I’m not like my dad. I’m not a spider like him. I’m not someone who feeds off people and beats on people. Your spirit was wrong.”

“That’s not what I meant and it wasn’t _mine_ ,” Stiles ran his hands through his hair. He shook his head but every move made the pounding worse. “You weren’t the spider you were the web. The spiders were the feelings and all that anger, and pain. It lived in there with you. It was like walking through cobwebs. I didn’t – I didn’t want to go there. It did.” 

He pressed his hands to his eyelids and counted his fingers, just to be safe. Through the throbbing in his brain the little spindles of cobweb threads, what was left of the Nogitsune’s thoughts, crawled to the forefront of his mind and brought him back to the cold, musty scent of the Lahey’s cellar. Isaac’s fear cut like a knife through the darkness. With the Nogitsune’s death, he lost his connection to the stabbing fear, but the memory of it remained, poking little holes in his dreams at night. 

“Why?” 

“Because it was fucking evil, Isaac.” 

“We-” 

“Not you. _It_. I didn’t tell Lydia anything. Drop it.” He opened his eyes just long enough to glare. 

Isaac stared back at him with pursed lips and hands tucked in his pockets. His eyes were guarded, like Chris’ when Stiles asked a question he’d rather not answer.

“I wouldn’t go back if I were you,” Stiles said, unable to help himself. 

Isaac scoffed. 

“Easy for you to say. Everyone wants you.” 

“That’s not-” 

The loft door swung open. In walked Derek, two white bags with a big yellow ‘M’ on the front cradled in his arms. His stomach bit sharply as the scent of French fries and greasy burgers hit his nose. His mouth would have watered if he weren’t so parched. 

“Thank you,” Stiles breathed. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked. His nostrils flared. He looked between Stiles and Isaac. His brows furrowed.

“Killer hangover,” Stiles said. “Seriously. I’m dying here. Please tell me there’s a coke.” 

Derek kicked the door shut with his foot. “There’s some in the fridge.” 

“Those are mine,” said Isaac, standing up.

“You can share.” 

Isaac made an indignant noise and went to the fridge. 

“Get one for Stiles too,” Derek called after him. He reached into one of the paper bags and tossed a sandwich in Stiles’ direction. 

Stiles caught it and didn’t even bother checking the label before ripping it open like a hungry coyote. The warm beef and cheese melted on his tongue. He didn’t even mind the pickle brine saturating his bun.

“Slow down or you’ll choke,” Derek said. He set the bags on the table and dropped into the chair nearest the sofa. 

Stiles’ mumbled an apology around his food, then went straight back to scarfing it down. His hangover-brain got him through two more sandwiches before he needed to break for one of Isaac’s pilfered sodas, he hadn’t even noticed Isaac drop it off or where he went afterwards. It didn’t come even close to curing his headache, but the tumultuous rumbling in his stomach satiated after he crammed the burgers into his belly. 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked. 

Stiles swallowed down a mouthful of half-chewed fries and gave a thumbs-down. 

“I think you’ll live.” 

“Doubt it,” Stiles mumbled. “Head’s killing me.”

“What’d you think would happen?” 

“The point was not to think.” 

Derek snorted. “What you did last night was stupid.” 

“When has drinking ever been smart?” 

He leaned back and slumped against the sofa, all too aware of Derek’s eyes on his face. 

“Drinking’s just the half of it. You could have gotten lost. Or eaten.” 

“Chris said-“ 

“Chris isn’t a werewolf.”

“He’s a hunter. He knows what’s out there.” 

“That doesn’t mean he understands it. Don’t go into the preserve at night.”

“Where else do you expect me to go? Not like I can just stay at home.” Stiles picked at the hem of his hoodie. It felt scratchy after being slept in all night long. He was too embarrassed to think about what he must have smelt like, booze and body odor most likely. He chanced a quick glance over at Derek. 

Derek’s eyes fixated on his face. His jaw was tight but his eyes weren’t unfriendly, just stern. It kinda reminded him of Chris. 

“You can come here.” 

“Seriously?” 

Derek shrugged. “Better here than there.” 

“You’re not going to tell your uncles?” 

“I told you I wouldn’t.” 

Stiles bit his lip. “Thanks. Really. That’s – That’s cool of you.”

“Take a shower when you get home, and put your clothes at the bottom of the hamper. Wash them as soon as you can.”

“Gee, thanks mom,” Stiles said. 

“I’m serious. Peter will be all over you if you don’t.” 

“Oh, right. Werewolf senses. Alright, I’ll do that.” 

“Good. Now let’s get you back home.” 

Stiles groaned.

⊷⧟⊶

The floorboards creaked as Stiles tiptoed inside the house. Chris’ car was gone from the drive but that didn’t mean Peter wasn’t lurking about. He had a strange habit of doing that.

All the way up to his room the image of Derek’s face, brows furrowed, lips set in a frown, forced its way through the throbbing of his head. Painful as it was to think, he couldn’t shake the way it made him feel.  
He did what Derek said, tossed his clothes in the depths of his hamper and threw a few clean ones on top to be safe. When he showered he doused himself in soap and body wash, enough to drain the bottle by at least an inch. When he was positive he reeked of cucumber melon instead of whiskey and French fries he threw on a clean pair of pants and an old T-shirt. 

He opened the door and came face-to-face with an arm-crossed, narrow-eyed Peter. 

“Hey kiddo.” 

Stiles jumped and skidded back on the water-slicked tile. 

“What the hell,” he breathed. He put a hand over his chest to make sure his heart was still beating. 

Peter leaned against the wall and tilted his head. 

“Forget something?” 

“I cleaned behind my ears and everything. Wanna check?” 

“Not that.” Peter rolled his eyes. “You know, it’s kind of cute. Allison used to shut the door to Chris’ study when she’d been sneaking in there too. He leaves it just a little bit open on purpose. Everyone always shuts it when they’re sneaking around in there.” 

Stiles opened his mouth but his brain drew a blank. He struggled for words but his tongue was dead weight. 

“Do you have any idea how upset Chris would be if he came home and you were gone?” 

“I – No. I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Peter’s eyes sparkled with a predatory grace. “I was a teenager once too. I know how they think.”

“I was just going for a walk.” 

“In the middle of the night, in the preserve, while Chris and I were gone?” Peter raised a brow in a way that reminded him of Derek. It was odd how they could be so dissimilar and so alike at the same time.  
Stiles shrugged. “So what, am I grounded?” 

“No, but the next time you decide to go on a midnight excursion be back here by two or I will get Chris involved, and he’s a lot less lenient then I am. You’re lucky I covered for you last night. It won’t happen again.” 

“You did?” Stiles asked. 

“I told him you were masturbating.” 

The heat of the shower seeped from Stiles’ face and down into a cold, hard pit of embarrassment. “You did not.” 

“Next time don’t stay out so late and no one will have to make ‘assumptions’ about what you were doing.” Peter reached up and ruffled his sopping hair before Stiles could stop him. He wiped his wet hand off on the towel in Stiles’ arms and winked. “You have a lovely day.” 

Stiles slumped against the door. 

“You’re the worst.” 

“Could be worse.”

⊷⧟⊶

The cold, polished metal of the gun sent electricity surging through Jackson’s hands. He felt strong. He felt powerful. No one could mess with him so long as he had it. It was his now. His weapon. His protection. His secret. He hid it under the front seat of his Porsche or under his bed when he slept. He never parted with it for long, not after what he’d seen. He was an exposed snail, waiting to be plucked from his shattered shell.

Jackson’s fingernails dug into his palm as he watched the Argent-Hale house. He didn’t like the way the curtains moved or how calm and quiet it all was. 

Argent walked out with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes just as sleepless and wary as the day Stiles went crazy. The one who asked – demanded – for his custody. He’d been sitting there, beside Stiles’ bed with his hand brushing through Stiles’ hair. He had a little bit of blood on his jacket.

No one noticed but Jackson. 

_Adderall addiction, insomnia, stress. Mental snap,_ those were the words the psychologists used. Argent called it ‘trauma’ but his eyes said monster. 

They were both monsters.

As he set his bag down in the backseat of the Tahoe, Argent looked over his shoulder, right towards where Jackson sat in his polished, silver, Porsche. 

Jackson swallowed. His windows were tinted, he knew no one could see inside but that didn’t stop his hands from clamming up. The gun - his gun - tucked away under his seat was a small comfort.

A few seconds later and Argent turned away. He got into the car and drove off to wherever monsters went during the day. 

Jackson stayed behind, waiting so very patiently for one of them to slip up. They would, eventually. If he had to sit there everyday for months one of them would slip up, and his dash cam would record all of it and if still no one believed him his gun would take care of the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Another chapter down :) If you liked please leave a comment. I'm still in the middle of a move so things are still a bit rocky but comments help keep me motivated to keep writing, I appreciate each and everyone one <3


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles sat in the dark of his lemon-scented bedroom. He draped his blanket around his shoulders and curled up in its fabric hug. His lap burned from the warmth of his laptop sitting on top of it, but he had grown to abhor the cold long enough that even with a fever coursing through his body he still didn’t push the laptop away. His hands were stuffed in his hoodie pocket, kneading the fabric, clenching and unclenching. It was all he could do to stop the shaking.

Chris and Peter lingered in the kitchen, whispering words into each other’s ear. They were probably staring into each other’s eyes, stupid half-hidden smirks playing out between them like they when they thought no one else was around. They were ‘going on a hunt,’ but all their stuff was still locked in the basement. As if he didn’t notice Peter’s hands snaking Chris’ waist or Chris’ hushed words and ‘ _not in front of the kid._ ’

Several minutes passed of their back and forth banter, too quiet to make out but too loud to ignore. Footsteps echoed down the hallway towards Stiles’ room. He looked up when a figure blocked the light bleeding in through the doorway.

“Peter and I are about to head out,” Chris said. His hair was slightly mused in the back – just slightly, like he’d brushed it back into place with his fingers.

“’Kay,” said Stiles, turning back to his computer screen. He couldn’t remember what show he’d been watching if he’d consciously picked one at all. 

“You okay?” Chris asked.

“What?” He looked up again.

“Are you feeling alright?” Chris furrowed his brows and stepped closer, out of the light and into the shadows of the room.

“Yeah, I feel fine,” Stiles said as his heart raced in his chest.

“You don’t look fine.”

Stiles forced himself to stay in place as Chris caught his chin and pressed the back of his palm to his forehead. His fingers were freezing.

“You’re warm,” Chris said.

Stiles leaned away, shaking off his hands. “It’s hot in here.” 

“Nice try. I told you not to stay up so late.”

Stiles blinked at him through bleary eyes.

Chris ruffled his hooded head. “Go to sleep. I’ll bring you some soup. Drink lots of water and take a warm shower if you’re feeling up to it. There’s some-“

“Chris!” Peter called from the hall.

“Could you hold on two seconds? Stiles is sick,” Chris called back.

“Well no wonder. He’s suffocating on Pledge up there. It’s worse than when Derek hit puberty.” 

“It’s not that bad.” Chris rolled his eyes.

“You’re not a werewolf. Please can we go? The cars been idling for ten minutes now.” Peter appeared in the doorway, holding his hand over his mouth and nose.

“Alright, fine.” Chris turned back to Stiles. “You get some sleep and lay off the cleaning supplies.”

“I thought you said take a shower?”

“You can do both without the sass. Goodnight.”

“Yeah, yeah, goodnight. Have fun banging your husband.”

Peter snorted.

Chris’ eyes widened. “We’re not – _Goodnight,_ Stiles.” He shut Stiles’ laptop and brushed past Peter in the doorway.

Peter winked and slung his arm around Chris’ shoulders.

Chris shut the door and Stiles was left alone in the dark. He laid down, listening to their footsteps as they traveled down the stairs, to the kitchen, and then into the garage. Peter’s car, his sleek, black, Porsche came to life with a muted growl so unlike the guttural roar of his own jeep grounded beside it. 

He untangled himself from the blanket, regretting the loss of warmth, and stumbled through the dark to the open door, stopping only for a moment to grab his phone of the desk. By the time he reached the staircase the car was already around the corner.

 _I’m out,_ he texted.

It took several tries before he managed to hit all the right letters with his shaking fingers. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and stepped out into the cool night air. He stuck to the manicured path, almost missing the bramble of the preserve. It was a far cry from his usual route of stepping over logs and avoiding thick patches of brush that would otherwise scratch his body.

As he rounded the corner a car pulled up alongside him. Stiles opened the door and slid in without a second thought. His heartbeat raced from anxiety or Adderall, he preferred the later explanation.

“Hey.”

“Did you bathe in citronella?” Derek grunted as he rolled down the windows. He pulled off the curb and back onto the street.

“You told me to spray my room.” Stiles hitched up his hood a little and slid down.

“Once or twice not the whole bottle.”

“Well, sorry I don’t know how werewolf noses work. Can you turn up the heat?”

“You’re that cold?” Derek asked.

“I just don’t like it.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Fine, don’t turn it up.”

There was a tiny whir from the air conditioner as it pumped out a flow of warmth.

“Thank you,” Stiles said, flickering his eyes over to Derek.

Derek’s lips were pursed as he stared out at the empty road ahead. He turned his head just slightly and almost made eye contact, but turned back at the last second. His nostrils were flaring, like Peter’s when he caught a scent he didn’t like.

“Do you have anything to drink?” Stiles asked. He looked down at his sleeve and picked at a stray thread.

“Not in the car.”

Stiles heartbeat stammered. Fifteen minutes was a long time to wait. He should have just grabbed something from Chris’s study. Just something small. Something he probably wouldn’t notice. Vodka or rum he could refill with water but Chris didn’t keep any vodka.

The buildings along the road grew in size and number the further into Beacon Hills they drove, leaving behind the quiet suburbs to the lively industrial district a stone’s throw away. As they went the lights shining in through the windshield felt brighter, the sounds got louder, and the throbbing in his head only got worse until by the time they pulled into the parking lot he was ready to down an entire bottle of Adderall in hopes it might make it go away. He didn’t remember anything about the loft. The memory of the building was so obscured in his mind he could hardly picture the couch he’d fallen asleep on. If not for the following morning he might have forgotten the whole thing. 

For just a second, he wondered if he was okay, then another throb of pain pulled his brain in the opposite direction.

Derek shoved open the door to the loft.

Stiles followed eagerly inside.

The loft was more spacious than he remembered it. The large window allowed the moonlight to stream in past the glass and pool in the middle of the floors like a silver ocean. The furniture was sparse but what was there looked warm and well cared for. A couch and a few arm chairs clustered around a large television in the center of the room. There, sitting with a remote dangling in his hand was Isaac. He briefly gave Stiles a once over, then turned back to the television.

“Hey,” said Stiles.

Isaac nodded at him.

“Sit down,” said Derek, nodding towards the couches.

Isaac spread his legs out on the couch, sliding down so he took up most of it. As if Stiles would have sat next to him. He rolled his eyes and settled into one of the arm chairs furthest from the television and Isaac. The chair was nice and overstuffed, he practically sank into it. He put his feet up on the coffee table, finally drawing a look from Isaac.

“People eat there,” said Isaac, eyeing his feet.

“You eat on the coffee table?”

Isaac shrugged. “Someone might.”

“What’re you watching?”

“T.V.,” said Isaac.

“Oh wow. I had no idea. And it just shows you moving pictures? Fascinating.”

A fridge door opened and closed somewhere behind them. Derek came back holding a brown bottle with a blue and white label in one hand. He passed it to Stiles and sat down on the sofa. The bottle was cold, a little bit of condensation built up around the sides and wet his fingertips when Stiles took it.

“Beer?” Stiles asked. It had the name of some fancy kind his dad swore was marked up for the pictures on the label alone. The intrusive memory of his dad smiling, cheeks slightly red, and hugs a little too tight made him twist off the cap and take a big swig. He swallowed it all down, hating the taste on his tongue but not enough to stop. It didn’t burn like Chris’ whiskey but he crinkled his nose all the same.

“Gross,” said Isaac, and for once they were in agreement.

Derek shrugged. “Just drink it.”

“I’m hungry,” said Isaac, prying his eyes away from the T.V.

“There’s food in the kitchen?”

“I don’t want that.”

“There’s mac and cheese in the cupboards.”

“I want pizza.”

“Pizza’s good,” said Stiles. If it was something to do other than sit and watch T.V. in silence he was willing to give it a chance.

“Fine,” said Derek. “What kind?”

“Sausage,” said Stiles.

“Pepperoni,” said Isaac.

“Sausage and pepperoni, it is.”

Isaac looked about to object but Derek was already pulling out his phone and dialing a number.

“I want soda,” Isaac mumbled as Derek was placing their order. 

“-with pineapple on half and a mountain dew,” Derek tacked onto the end. “It’ll be thirty minutes.”

“Pineapple, really?” Stiles asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

Derek reached over and smacked him on the shoulder.

“It should be,” said Isaac.

Derek growled.

“My house, my pizza. Buy your own if you don’t like it.”

Stiles smiled. He dug in his pocket for another pill and swallowed it down with the last of his drink. It didn’t have the heavy hit like the hard stuff did but at least it stilled his fumbling fingers.

“Pretty sure mixing drugs and alcohol is a bad idea,” Isaac said, never taking his eyes from the screen.

“It’s not ‘drugs’ its Adderall. I have a prescription.”

“For one or two, not the whole bottle.”

“It’s not like I’m doing heroin.”

“Yeah, you’re right. A doctor said you could do it.”

“I have ADHD, Isaac.”

“Is it bad for you?” Derek asked. He leaned closer, flaring his nostrils and furrowing his brow.

“No,” said Stiles. “Do I look high to you?”

“You look sick.”

“Yeah well I’m sorry my dead dad makes it kinda hard to sleep. Sorry I can’t be the picture of perfect health right now.” He curled his knees up onto the sofa and half hid behind them. He could feel Derek’s eyes burning holes in his sweatshirt, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around him tight, hugging his bottle to his chest.

He waited until he knew no one would be watching him to look up.

Derek stood up from the couch and left, passing behind Stiles’ chair.

Stiles kept his eyes down, even when he thought he could feel a little puff of warm breath above his head.

The fridge in the kitchen opened and closed again.

In his periphery, he saw Derek put another beer next to his chair leg before sitting back down on the couch near Isaac.

The volume of the T.V. turned up. Slowly Stiles uncurled himself and traded his empty bottle to the one on the floor. His clammy hands had difficult twisting the cap as he opened the bottle.

“Pizza’s here,” Derek announced, just before the door buzzed.

“I can help carry?” offered Isaac.

Derek shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. He walked out without a word or glance in Stiles’ direction.

“You have a problem. It’s not ADHD,” said Isaac.

“Yes, I do. I’ve had ADHD since I was a kid. You should know that, we went to elementary school together.”

“Yeah, but the pill you took this morning got rid of the symptoms, now you’re just chasing carrots.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t but someone else might.”

“Like who?”

“You’re the last person who should be asking that.”

“You wanna stop with the cryptic bullshit? Sounds like you’re not exactly innocent yourself. You have something you wanna get off your chest?”

“Not me,” Isaac said, digging his fingers into his jeans. 

Stiles was about to spit back when the door swung open and Derek walked back in, carrying a box and a bag.

Isaac stood up from the couch with a stretch as Derek put the pizza on the coffee table. He went the kitchen and came back carrying a stack of paper plates. He took a few slices from the box, grabbed the mountain dew, and headed towards the spiral staircase in the middle of the room.

“Where are you going?” Derek asked.

“Upstairs.”

“You don’t want to stay?”

“No. I don’t really wanna sit around and watch you get drunk. I’m sure you can understand why.” He leveled a look in Stiles’ direction that made a tiny icicle of guilt stab through him.

Stiles took another drink to wash the chill away.

“He’ll be fine,” said Derek as Isaac’s curly head disappeared into the upper level.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He set his beer on the table and leaned over to grab a slice of pizza. It was still warm enough that the cheese oozed off the sides. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“I have Kingsman,” said Derek.

“What else?”

Derek was silent.

“Oh,” said Stiles. “Kingsman is fine.”

⊷⧟⊶

The back of Peter’s head pressed against the window as Chris’ breath ghosted his lips. In the Porsche there was just enough space for two bodies to twine together in the backseat, tangled like yarn with Peter’s creeping up the back of  
Chris’ shirt.

Chris chuckled and dragged a calloused palm down Peter’s cheek as he planted their lips together. The taste of wine and steak lingered on his tongue.

“I missed you,” Peter mumbled into his mouth.

“I didn’t go anywhere.” Chris’ stubble scratched Peter’s chin as he pulled back and kissed the spot under Peter’s jaw, just above his jugular.

Peter tilted his head and dug his nails into Chris’ skin. “Yeah well, _someone’s_ been making home feel a little less intimate.”

“Stop killing the mood.”

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug. He peeled Chris’ shirt off his body and didn’t care where it fell as he drank in the sight of Chris’ naked chest. As soon as his torso was liberated from the oppressive clothing he fell back down with his warmth pressed to Peter.

In the bustle of the past few months Chris’ beard had grown out at least an inch longer than usual. It tickled Peter’s chin as Chris placed rough kisses up and down his throat that sent little tingles of pain and pleasure down his spine. 

Some days Peter hated that he couldn’t bruise.

A sharp siren cut the air.

Chris pulled away. He looked over to the front seat where his phone blared and vibrated.

“Don’t answer it. Don’t. Chris, don’t-“

Chris was already getting off him and fumbling around in the front seat for his phone. “Hello?”

“I’m going to throw that damn phone in the lake,” Peter said. He sat up and crossed his arms. Without Chris laying on top of him the night air, leaking in through the cracked window, trailed his spine with cold breath. 

“Hey, dad!” Allison’s voice came through like the titter of a newly hatched bird. 

“Hey. What are you doing up so late?” Chris’s face brightened in a way no one else’s could. His eyes were still solemn, but the quirk of his brows and the twitch at the corner of his mouth was telling enough.

“It’s only nine here.”

“Right. How are you?”

“Good. Mom bought my plane ticket. Is June fifteenth okay?”

“Is that your mother asking, or you?”

Allison was quiet for a second.

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“It’s fine, Allie. Only a few months now. Are you excited to be back?”

“Well, I’m going to miss the food, the fashion, the sights …” her voice grew distant in her longing for the place she hadn’t yet left.

Chris’ face fell.

Peter plucked the phone from Chris’ hands before he could protest. “You’re going to break your father’s heart if you keep talking like that.”

Allison laughed. “Oh, sorry. Hi, Peter. Tell dad I’m sorry. Of course I’m excited to come home.”

“I will let him know.”

“How are you?”

“Well,” Peter tutted, “we were supposed to be on a hunt, but I’m sure you can guess how well that’s going.”

“Quiet night? That’s not a bad thing.”

Peter tutted. “Not always. Have you gone to the place on sixth yet?”

“No, but mom says-“

“Enough,” said Chris, taking the phone back.

“We were having a conversation,” Peter said.

“We were having one first. Allie?”

“Are you two bickering again?”

Peter scoffed.

“No, we’re fine. Peter’s just an asshole. You’re coming back on the fifteenth?” His heartbeat sped up, like he thought she might have changed her mind.

“That’s the plan. Tickets bought and paid for.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Allie.”

“I should let you get back to it,” she said. Her voice tapered off at the end, almost like a question.

“Yes, please,” Peter breathed but he knew the moment was over. He rolled onto his side and fished around through the pile of discarded clothes in the seat well. He pulled Chris’ shirt on over his head, catching the scent of cedar and pine as he did. At least he could get one thing out of the evening.

“Yeah,” Chris sighed. “It’s late.”

“It’s nine.”

“Goodnight, Allison.”

Allison chuckled. “Night. ‘Night Peter!”

“Goodnight.”

Chris hung up the phone and tossed it back into the front seat after realizing he had no pockets to stick it in.

“That’s my shirt,”

“Tough,” said Peter.

Chris rolled his eyes and slid on his jacket. He didn’t bother zipping it up as he fumbled around for the rest of his clothes.

“Here I thought we would finally get a night to ourselves,” Peter mumbled. Lake lapping greeted him as he opened the car door. His feet pressed into soft grass and crunching leaves. It took a few minutes to wiggle back into his jeans, by the time he had Chris was already sitting in the front seat; shoes on, jacket zipped, hair combed back into neatness.

“We have plenty of nights to ourselves,” Chris said, leaning through the window.

“Oh, don’t say that. The beasts of the preserve might get jealous.” Peter leaned down, took Chris’ face in his hands, and pressed their lips. They were still puffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the patience <3 if you liked this chapter please leave a comment, they are much appreciated and motivating.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles stomach sloshed with a mixture of beer and pizza that just barely kept nausea at bay. He moved to Isaac’s side of the sofa as soon as Isaac disappeared behind the railing of the loft’s upper level. His feet rested by Derek’s legs while his head laid on the armrest. With every sip of beer his brain went blurry. The movie came on and ended without a single word spoken between them. 

“Hey Derek? Can I ask you a question?” Stiles asked, tasting the beer on his breath when he opened his mouth. It poured from his lips and filtered into his nose almost as strong as cigarette smoke. He knew Derek could smell it from the way his nostrils flared.

Derek’s eyes glistened in the moonlight when he pried his eyes away from the glowing television screen, reflecting like a cat’s in the darkness. 

“When you were born did you know you were a werewolf? I mean, did your parents tell you, did you have a tail, or-?” A hiccup cut him off. 

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “My mom told me I was different. Every mom tells their kid they’re different.”

Stiles swallowed the last drop of liquid in his can as his mother’s smiling face, her crow-footed eyes, and touch of her lips against his forehead penetrated through the liquor-lined wall of his brain. _You’re not weird,_ she said, when Stiles was still small enough to curl in her lap. _You’re just different. There’s nothing wrong with different._

“Did it bother you?” Stiles asked, shoving back against the thoughts. 

“I liked that she was right about me.” 

“Her name was Talia, right?” 

Derek’s brows slightly raised. 

“Peter talked about her?” 

“No,” Stiles said. “I – my dad was a deputy. He was one of the first responders when, when it happened. The fire, I mean.” 

“Why would he tell his kid about that?” 

“He didn’t. He came home smelling like smoke- there was ash all over his hands. I overheard him when the station called.” 

“When you were born did you know you liked sticking your nose into other people’s business?” Derek asked, turning back to the T.V. 

“Yeah, the way your uncles stuck theirs into mine?” 

“You’re alive because of Peter.” 

“And you,” Stiles said, “and Chris.” 

“Mostly Peter.” 

“I seriously don’t understand your problem with Chris.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t. Finish your beer.”

“It’s empty.” 

“Then finish your pizza.” 

Stiles gestured to the box lain open with just a few globs of cheese sticking to the cardboard. Isaac had snuck down a few more times to grab another slice but he never acknowledged them. 

“All gone.” 

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” said Derek. 

“I liked it better when I wasn’t thinking. Any chance you have another case?” 

“I didn’t think you’d finish the first one.” Derek stood from the sofa and stretched his arms above his head. “You should be getting home.” 

“Are you mad?” Stiles blurted. 

“No. It’s been three hours. They’ll be getting back soon.” 

“Peter told me it’s fine as long as I’m back by two.” 

Derek’s jaw clenched. “You told him?” 

“No,” Stiles shook his head. It sent a spike through his swirling stomach. “He caught me sneaking out. He doesn’t know anything.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t think he cares.” 

“Does Peter ever seem like he cares?”

Stiles shrugged. “Sometimes.” 

“He’ll be watching you.”

“He’s too preoccupied with Chris.” 

Derek growled. 

“How often are they actually home with you?” 

Stiles shrugged. “They have busy jobs.” 

“No, they’re just can’t handle people who depend on them.” 

“Allison turned out okay.” 

‘Maybe they’re just bad as a pair.” 

“Will you please just tell me what your issue with Chris is? Did he kick your puppy or something?”

“No. His sister burned my house down.”

A ghostly wave of regret passed through Stiles’ body and settled like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Derek grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch and slide it on. 

“I didn’t mean to pry,” said Stiles. He stood up on legs that only half obeyed.

“Yeah, you did,” said Derek.

“Maybe,” said Stiles. “I’m drunk?” 

Derek grunted. 

“Do you really think it’s Chris’s fault?”

“… I think you should be getting home.” Derek felt around in his pocket and turned to the   
stairway. Perched like a hawk in its nest, Isaac watched them from the top of the spiral staircase, one leg dangling over the steps. “I’m taking Stiles home.” 

“Bye,” said Isaac with a short wave. “Thanks for reeking up the couch.” 

Derek growled. “Stop it.” 

Stiles raised his middle finger. 

“You too,” said Derek. He smacked Stiles’ hand down, just enough to sting, and grabbed him by the bicep.

Stiles’ head swirled as he was dragged towards the sliding door. He let himself be pulled down through the halls of the building, down the elevator, and out through the parking lot. The cold wind mussed his hair as it rolled along past him. Derek practically stuffed him into the front seat of the Camero. 

Stiles wiped his mouth and leaned back, half-expecting Derek to shoot off the second he closed the door. “I really didn’t mean to make you upset.” 

Derek turned the key in the ignition. “I’m not upset.” 

“You look pretty angry for someone who’s not upset.” 

“That’s just my face.” 

Stiles’ lips twitched. “Was that almost a joke?” 

“Almost. Don’t ruin it.” 

Stiles leaned his head against the window as the car made its way through the empty streets. A lethargy spread through Stiles’ bones the closer the house became. He fumbled in his pockets for a pill and swallowed it down. It lingered on his tongue a second too long and left a chalky taste behind.

“… Why does Isaac think those are dangerous?” 

“Because he’s lame.” 

Stiles shoved his hands back into his pockets. His fingertips grazed the half dozen pills still hidden there.

“If you answer my question I’ll answer yours. Why does Isaac think those are dangerous?”   
Stiles clenched his fingers. 

“… Some people abuse them.” 

“Do you?” 

“Answer my question first.” 

“Fine.” 

“Do you hate Chris?” 

“…. Sometimes.”

“Because of his sister?” 

“Games over,” said Derek. 

Stiles was about to argue until he noticed they were already parked outside the house. 

“You need help getting out?” Derek asked. 

Stiles shook his head. He climbed out of the passenger seat and staggered towards the door. He turned back for just a second and waved. The windshield was too dark to see if Derek waved back.

⊷⧟⊶

The sound of water hitting tile came from the upstairs bathroom. Chris shut the door with a gloved hand.

“It’s been three hours,” he said. “He just takes a shower now?” 

Peter shrugged off his coat and hung it in the hall closet. “Yeah. About that … I caught him sneaking back in the other day. He must have been out all night.” 

“What?” Chris furrowed his brows. “You didn’t tell me?” 

“I took care of it.”

Chris’s shoulders stiffened as he peeled the gloves off his hand. 

“There’s no reason to get paranoid. Besides, we needed a night to ourselves, not that we ended   
up having one.” 

“A kid sneaking out is a little more important than your libido.”

“He’s not a kid, he’s a teenager. They do that all the time. You know Allison’s done it.” 

“Allison listens to me.” 

Peter laughed. 

“Don’t be naive. She flutters her pretty eyes and you melt. Don’t act like you don’t see the way she can’t look at you in the morning.”

“You still should have told me. I’m going to have a word with him.” Chris hung his coat in the closet beside Peter’s. 

“No, don’t,” said Peter. “I told you, I handled it. He promised to come home earlier. Besides … if Stiles is meeting with friends we should let him. That kid deserves some.” 

“The kinds of ‘friends’ he should be hanging out with aren’t the ones who sneak out at two in the morning.” Chris shut the closet door as the shower turned off. 

“Back _in_ at two in the morning. We used to do it all the time.” 

“You want him to be like us?” 

“Fair point,” said Peter. “I still don’t think you should say anything to him. Not tonight.”

Peter brushed past him and went up the stairs. He paused for a second at the hallway leading to Stiles’ room. A small trail of wet footprints led from the bathroom to Stiles’ door. He could just make out the soft _‘click, click’_ of nails on a keyboard. 

“So, you just want to let it continue? That’s not happening.” 

Peter sighed and went up a flight to the room he shared with Chris. He stripped off his shirt and dropped it in the hamper.

“No,” Peter said as he stripped off his shirt and dropped it into the hamper. “I just don’t want it to be a big deal, and it won’t be unless we make it one. I’ll figure something out.” 

“That isn’t talking to him? And how do you plan to do that?” Chris went to their shared bathroom. He heard the faucet turn on and Chris’ hands in the sink as he washed his face. 

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk to him, I said I wouldn’t make it a big deal.” 

“It might be better if I do it.” 

“You don’t trust me?” Peter asked. He changed into a pair of blue flannel pajama pants and dropped onto the bed, stretching his arms above his head. 

“It’s not about trust.” 

“I’m confident I can tell a teenager not to sneak out.”

“You had the chance to do that the first time and didn’t.” 

“Yes, because I think a seventeen-year-old kid is going to sneak out whether I condone it or not.”   
“That doesn’t mean you should,” Chris said. The water in the other room turned off. Chris returned wearing only his boxers. 

“Fine. I’m sorry I let Stiles sneak out, but in my defense, I did tell him to come home.” 

Peter strained his ears. The sounds of the keyboard had stopped, replaced by the rustling of blankets and soft, slightly hitched breathes. His heartbeat was off, but Peter had come to accept that as just another quirk in Stiles’ flawed design. 

It reminded him of Derek, of the way things had been before the fire when Derek trusted him just   
enough not to hide the fact that he’d been out. 

But Stiles wasn’t Derek. 

“What are you thinking about?” Chris asked. 

“Hm?” 

“Your eyes are bleeding red.” 

Peter blinked. He hadn’t noticed the red tinging the corner of his vision. 

“Not half as blue as my balls,” Peter said, a smirk found its way onto his lips. After a moment it died there. 

“Peter. This is serious.” 

Peter sighed. “I know. I said I was sorry. Do you know how hard that is for me?” 

“I just want you to know why you’re apologizing. I know you’re new to this whole ‘parenting’ thing-“ 

“Stiles isn’t our son.” 

“No, but he’s our responsibility.” 

Peter pressed his lips. 

“He’s just as much ours as Allison. Or Derek. I don’t mean we need to check his homework or drive him to school, but we could do him the courtesy of keeping an eye on him. It’s what his father would have wanted.” 

“Ouch,” said Peter with a grimace. “Alright, I get it. No more letting Stiles sneak around, _but_ I still want to be the one to talk to him.” 

“Okay,” said Chris. His shoulders relaxed as he laid down on the bed next to Peter. “So long as you promise you will talk to him.” 

“On my honor.” 

“That doesn’t mean much,” said Chris, leaning closer, “but thank you.” He planted a firm kiss against Peter’s lips, their combined stubble scratching against one another’s. 

Peter’s arms snaked up around his neck and held him close when he tried to pull away.

⊷⧟⊶

In the morning, Stiles awoke to the scent of freshly cooked bacon in the air. The pain in his stomach overpowered the one in his head as he dragged himself out of bed. The pizza and alcohol hadn’t mixed well from the night before. He threw on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt before letting his gnawing stomach pull him down the stairs towards the sound of sizzling bacon and clinking silverware.

In the kitchen, Chris stood over the stove, a plate of bacon beside him on the counter, and several more strips sizzling in the pan.

Peter was already at the table, dipping a slice of toast in the runny yokes of his eggs. He looked up briefly from his food, but dropped his gaze back down as soon as he made eye contact with Stiles. 

“Good morning,” Chris said, without turning to look at him.

“’Morning,” Stiles said. He stole a slice of bacon from the counter and bit off the tip. His stomach rumbled in approval as the grease touched his tongue. 

“Use a plate,” Chris said. Unlike usual, he didn’t attempt a swipe at Stiles with whatever cooking utensil was in his hand. 

“I’m not that hungry.” 

“You should be. You were up all night,” Chris said. 

“Huh?”

Peter looked over at them and licked a small piece of egg yoke from his mouth. 

Chris wiped his hands on a napkin and looked down at Stiles. 

“I heard you get in the shower. It must have been almost two in the morning.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Yeah I – I couldn’t sleep.” 

Chris pressed the back of his palm to Stiles’ forehead. 

“You seem to be feeling better. Your fever’s gone. You know, when Peter and I were kids, there was this trick where you would put a heat pack on your forehead to fake a fever. Allison tried it once. It almost feels like the real thing.”

“Allison did? Here I thought she was one of the good ones.”

“She is. That doesn’t mean she’s not still a teenager.”

“Use a plate,” said Peter, biting off the corner of his toast. 

“Fine.” Stiles grabbed a dish from the cupboard, all too aware of Chris’ eyes on his back. He sat down in his usual spot near the end and crammed his slice of bacon in his mouth before reaching for another. 

Chris turned back to his pan. He scrapped the rest of the bacon onto the plate and set it on the table. “Would you like eggs with that?” 

Stiles shook his head. His stomach disagreed. Loudly. 

“Oh no, of course not,” Peter said. “That’s why your stomach is talking. It just hates the idea of food.”

“You’re such a narc.” 

“I’m too old to be a ‘narc’.” 

“You’re too old to be alive.”

“You wound me. After all I’ve done for you?”

“And what has Peter done for you?” Chris asked, as he broke an egg over the pan. 

“Well, I let him take my bacon,” Peter said, tugging the plate closer, “after my husband so lovingly cooked it for me.” 

“It doesn’t have your name on it,” Stiles said, reaching for a third slice. 

Peter growled, but let him take it. 

“You should try to get to sleep earlier tonight,” said Chris as he stirred the eggs in the pan. 

“Yeah, okay,” said Stiles. 

“Chew with your mouth closed,” said Peter. 

“Don’t shed on the couch.”

Peter smacked Stiles’ hand when he reached for another strip.

“Ow!” 

“Insult me and you don’t get my bacon. I caught that deer with my bare teeth, you know.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

Peter shrugged and smirked as he bit into his strip. 

Chris cleared his throat. “I hope you do.” 

“Do what?” Stiles asked. 

“Sleep earlier.” 

“Yeah. I will.” 

“What time?” 

“Uh, I don’t know? Midnight?”

Chris scrapped Stiles’ eggs off the pan and poured them onto a plate. “Doesn’t that seem a little late to you?” 

“No?” 

“Peter?” Chris asked, looking over at him as he set the bowl in front of Stiles. 

“You should go to sleep sooner than midnight, Stiles,” Peter said. 

“Fine. I’ll go to sleep sooner than midnight. I’m really not hungry.” He picked up his fork and poked it around in his eggs a little. 

“You should eat.” 

“He’ll be late for school,” said Peter. 

“There’s time. It’s only a twenty-minute drive. You want to stay and finish your food, don’t you Stiles? It’ll give us more time for conversation.”

“Actually, I should be getting to class now,” said Stiles. He stood up from the table. “Thanks for the eggs. I have homework to work on and- “ 

“I’ll walk you out,” offered Peter. 

Stiles grabbed his backpack from the living room and walked out to the garage where his jeep stood out next to the Porsche. 

“So that was weird,” said Stiles when the garage door shut behind them. 

“He knows you came in late last night.” 

“You told him?” Stiles furrowed his brows. He could feel his heart kick up in his chest. 

“He heard you. He’s not an idiot.” Peter said. 

“What did you say?” 

“I didn’t say anything. Even if I had, you should have known better than to be up that late.”

“You said coming home at two was fine. You said you wouldn’t tell.” 

“I didn’t ‘tell.’ Look, Chris is right. You need to be coming home sooner.” 

“You didn’t have a problem with it a week ago.” 

“I know that. Forgive me for not being an experienced parent.” 

“You’re not my parent,” Stiles said. 

“I’m not arguing. You need to come home sooner than two. That’s just how it is.” 

“You-“ 

“You can have this conversation with Chris, if you want. He will argue with you.” 

Stiles crossed his arms. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Peter, rubbing his temples. “He’s right. It’s way too late for you to be out. I need to know where you’ve been going.” 

Stiles pressed his lips. His mind immediately went to Derek. It wasn’t like he would be willing to come over to their place. He thought of Isaac, alone with Derek in the loft together. His fingers clenched as a lump formed in his throat. 

“Just tell me. For my own peace of mind, alright?” Peter said. 

Stiles listened to his heart, _beat-beat_ ing away in his chest, aware that Peter could hear it too. 

“I,” he swallowed. “I visited my dad.” The words came out like vomit over his tongue, bitter and disgusting. His stomach dropped. He wanted to take it back. He wanted to stuff them back in his throat as soon as they were out. 

_Wrong, wrong wrong._

Peter’s eyes softened. 

“I went to visit his grave. I just – I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, okay?” The words just kept coming. It was wrong, so wrong. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t give up what little he had left. He couldn’t stand himself. 

“Okay,” said Peter, relaxing his shoulders. “I’ll let Chris know you’ve been safe, and you start coming home sooner. Deal?” 

“Deal,” said Stiles as the pit in the bottom of his stomach widened, and all the nasty thoughts and feelings, the drugs and the alcohol, prepared to fill it. At least his Adderall would wash it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dreaded beast of university has let up on my soul for just a little while that I managed to finish this chapter. Sorry for such a lengthy delay. Hopefully, my tired brain will get a break soon lol. If you liked it, please leave a comment <3 thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

The scent of citrus and salt lingered in Stiles’ room like a fresh coat of paint, dripping, peeling, and leaking onto the carpet and furniture, singeing Peter’s nostrils. To say it looked like a bomb went off was an understatement, unless the bomb had pens and soda cans for shrapnel. A motley of energy drinks lined Stiles’ desk, surrounded by and stacked on top of various papers. The books had been stripped from the shelf and instead lay on and around his poorly made bed. Derek was a messy teen too, but his mess didn’t have an odor. 

At least Chris had the courtesy of waiting until Stiles’ jeep was around the bend before marching up to his room with every intention of ransacking the place, leaving the food on his plate and his toast still darkening in the toaster. His anxiety was sharper than Stiles, or perhaps spicier. It burned at Peter’s nostrils.

“Do you know what his computer password is?” Chris asked, closing the desk drawer, and opening the one above it. 

“Try ‘I like violating the privacy of teenagers,” he said, breathing through his nose. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to help,” Chris said, filtering through the papers on the desk, blissfully unaffected by the scents surrounding him, at least for the moment. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to show a little bit of trust,” Peter said. 

“I do trust him, I just don’t always trust him.” He picked up one of the energy drinks and sniffed the top of the lid. He winced and set it back down.

“He promised to stop sneaking out late, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Chris. “I mean, yes, but I’d like to know why he was sneaking out in the first place.” 

“You don’t think after everything that’s happened to him, he would want to visit his father’s grave?” 

“Of course he would, but he’s been hiding it and people don’t hide innocent things.” Chris shot Peter a look before getting on his knees and looking under the bed. His brow furrowed. 

“You’re paranoid.”

“It’s saved my life more than once.” Chris reached under and pulled out a jacket. 

“So, what do you want to do? Sign him up for therapy?” 

“Yes, if that were an option. He’d be committed as soon as he mentioned a werewolf,” Chris said as he turned the pockets inside out. His pulse jumped as an orange pill bottle, half filled with tablets spilled onto the floor. “Drugs, Peter,” he said, picking up the pills. 

“Prescriptions that you pick up for him. His only crime is being a messy teen. Let’s just send him straight to juvie, if you think they can handle him.” 

Chris grunted, stuffed the jacket back under the bed and stood, bottle in hand. 

“I’m just trying to make sure he’s safe.” 

“We’ll keep an eye on him.” 

“Like when he was sneaking out under our noses?” 

“Just yours,” Peter said. 

Chris’s eyes, already chilled like ice water, froze over into a steely stare as soon as the words reached him. 

“You’re not helping his case.” 

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, so you could spend all day paranoidly searching his room for evidence of nonexistent crimes. He’s a good kid. Just let him be.” Peter said. 

“I never said he wasn’t, but he’s still a teenager. They make stupid decisions all the time, good or bad. Nobody makes it through what he’s had to deal with okay, and yet here he is sitting in our house, watching television, and eating cereal. I can’t protect him if I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“He’s too healthy? Chris, I love you, but for the love of good, sometimes a good thing is just a good thing.” 

“And sometimes it’s the calm before the storm. I’m not going to sit around and wait for something to happen. I can’t.”

“I know. I used to find that endearing,” Peter said, with a slight bite in his tone. “You promised you would let me deal with him.” 

“I promised I would let you talk to him. You had your talk.” 

“He said –“ 

“When has a teenager ever said what they meant?”

“Why can’t we just give him the benefit of the doubt?” 

“Because it could get Stiles hurt. It could get everyone hurt.” Chris pocketed the pill bottle and faced Peter, his cold eyes melting just a bit.

“And when will you finally be satisfied? When you catch him drinking milk straight from the carton? Then you can have your big freak out and be done with it. I’m starting to think you’re trying to hate him,” Peter said, leveling a glare of his own. 

“Who said I hated him?” Chris asked, spreading his hands.

“You’re not exactly showering him with affection.” 

“Is that what you do with Derek?”

Peter averted his gaze to Stiles’ nightstand. It was like an icicle stabbed into his chest at Derek’s name. Another bottle of pills lay nestled between a phone charger and an alarm clock. That one was half empty as well. 

“That’s completely different.” 

“It isn’t. I care about Stiles, I really do, but I don’t know him well enough to say I trust him. He hasn’t been free from that thing long enough for nothing to be left behind. Eleanor even said he wasn’t completely clean.”

“Clean?” Peter asked, snapping his gaze back at Chris. His hackles raised as a growl tried forcing its way from his throat. “He’s not a diseased stray. Is every inhuman thing unclean to you? Am I unclean?” 

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant,” Chris snapped. “You’re making this about something it isn’t. I care about him, supernatural blood or not. If he asks you to turn him tomorrow, I wouldn’t say a word.” 

Peter laughed. “Yes, you’re so unopinionated about the matter.” 

Chris rubbed his eyes. His shoulders dropped and a quiet, breath noise rushed past his lips too weak to be called a sigh. 

“Stop it. I don’t hate werewolves. I don’t hate Stiles. I don’t hate what might be lurking inside of him. I just need to know what that is.”

“And what if you don’t like it?” 

“I’ll deal with it.” 

“What if it’s nothing? What if it’s just your paranoid brain?”

“Well then I’ll be pretty fucking relieved, won’t I? I want to be wrong about this. You wanna talk about trust? Try trusting me.” 

“Fine. Have fun playing detective. I have some monsters in the preserve to feed. You know, the ones you trust more than the teenager?” Peter turned around and went to the bedroom. He found his keys on Chris’s side of the nightstand along with his phone. 

When he turned around Chris was standing by the bed. “I don’t hate anyone.” 

“I know that,” said Peter. “You could stand to show it a little more.”

“I want too, but - Allison’s coming back soon – I can’t … I can’t let anything happen, not to her, not to anyone. If he’s fine, if he is only going to the cemetery, then I’ll be the first person to apologize.” 

Peter sat on the bed, holding his keys in one hand. 

“When did things become so complicated?”

“That’s what happens with teenagers,” Chris said.

⊷⧟⊶

The cold glass of the Porsche window pressed against Jackson’s cheek. The street was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner ghosting a cool breeze, and the occasional noise of a car driving past. His eyelids drifted as he stared at the house across the way, tempted to sleep by soft noise and the pleasant warmth of his coffee cup spreading between his fingers. Only a small amount remained, sloshing against the bottom.

His eyes were nearly closed when the garage door finally rolled up. Stiles’ blue atrocity backed out, hitting the curb and narrowly missing the fire hydrant. 

Jackson straightened up. He set his cup back in the holder and waited for the jeep to round the bend to tail him.

The jeep clunked along with a guttural noise. It didn’t swerve but coasted very slowly until the right tires were about to cross the line breaking up the street. It jerked back to the left to re-center itself. As the school came into sight the jeep slowed, well before the turn, and carefully pulled into the parking lot. 

The school bells had already run so only a handful of people loitered by the front doors. None of them paid attention to Stiles’ half-assed, sideways parking job. 

Jackson craned his neck as he rolled down the row to park a few cars away, close enough that he could see the driver’s side door.

Stiles climbed out of the vehicle, stumbling and slamming his shoulder into the Volvo parked next to him. It was like when Lahey’s father came home too late, his movements lurching, one foot overcompensating while the other dragged behind. 

Jackson got out and watched with baited breath. He expected Stiles to seize, to fall to the ground and shake violently like the night his eyes turned black.

He didn’t. 

Stiles cringed and picked himself up. He dug around in his pocket with his right hand, while rubbing his shoulder with his left. He palmed something into his mouth and swallowed before walking to the doors. He kept a straight line but his head was down and his hood was up. 

Jackson sprinted to the jeep and tugged at the door handle. It didn’t budge, so he raised his hand over his eyes and peered in through the window. There was a pill bottle in the cupholder, and a few scattered clothes and a box in the backseat. Nothing exciting, nothing helpful.

When he entered the school, Stiles was still in the entrance, head down and hands in his pockets. His hood had been pushed back to reveal a mess of brown hair underneath, it was just long enough to brush over his eyes. His lips were set in a deep frown. 

Ms. Morell, sat at the desk, hands folded neatly over the sign in sheet. She looked up at Stiles with a gentle expression, like coddling a wounded bird. 

“-Second time this week. If this keeps happening I’ll need to notify your guardian,” she said.

“Do you want the address of his grave, or should I get you a Ouija board?” Stiles asked. “Maybe we could get some candles and just have a seance right here?” 

Morrel’s frown deepened. She waited for Stiles to look at her before responding. 

“I’m well aware of your father’s passing and what a toll that must have taken on you. I’ve allowed this to go on for some time now without involving anyone. Now, I’m starting to get concerned. Its more than just not showing up to class, it’s–“ 

“If I wanted to talk I’d be in your office.” 

Morell was quiet for a moment. She unfolded her hands and slid the sign in sheet over to him. 

“You should stop by after school.” 

“I have other stuff to do,” Stiles muttered as he hastily scribbled his name. He smacked the pen onto the desk when he was done. 

“Some time when you’re free, then,” she said, taking the sheet back. 

Stiles shifted his bag and hurried down the hall. 

“And you, Mr. Whittemore –” Morrel said, her tone going sharp as she zeroed in on Jackson, “-have been late just as much. What’s your excuse?” She refolded her hands over the sign in and pressed her lips, eyes even sharper than her tongue. 

“Coach Finstock said I should rest my shoulder for the game.”

“He doesn’t have the authority to let you miss class. Is there something you need to talk about?” 

“No.” Jackson said, tilting his chin up. 

Morell smiled at him. 

“Everyone has problems. If you don’t want to talk about them that’s on you, but they’d better stop affecting your attendance or I’ll have to notify your guardians as well. You know you need to be in good academic standing to play for this school, right?”

“Coach wouldn’t bench his star player,” Jackson scoffed.

“We’ll just have to hope you remain the star then, won’t we?” Morrel said, sliding the sign in sheet over. 

Jackson was quick to snatch it up, scrawling his own name in cursive underneath Stiles’.

“Study hard in class, Jackson,” Morrel called as Jackson walked away. 

Jackson bit his tongue. 

It wasn’t until lunch that Jackson caught up with Stiles again. He was easy to spot, nestled in the back of the cafeteria, hood hanging low over his half-lidded eyes. His chin rested on his book like a pillow, his arms lay slack against the table, and his food lay untouched. 

Lydia sat across from him, eyes soft and lips pressed as she brushed her thumb over his forehead. 

Jackson walked to the back of the room, the space usually reserved for people of no notable worth. And yet, there he was, not even a full table away from Lahey and his little cluster of misery. Isaac and Boyd shared their own shifty glances at the table in the back. Erica sat with her head on her arms, hair clumped together in a messy bun behind her head. 

“-every night. Derek doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. Just lets it happen. See if I give a shit.” Isaac said as he jammed his thumbs into his dinner roll with a scowl. He picked it apart, leaving it’s tattered remains scattered around his tray.

“I think the roll gets the message there, buddy,” said Boyd around a mouthful of potatoes. 

“At least someone does,” Isaac said. He gave one last little tear before dropping the roll. 

“You should tell a counselor,” Erica sniffled into her sleeve. 

“So they can do what? They’d just call his guardians. I bet they wouldn’t do shit.” 

“How do you know?” asked Boyd. 

“They already don’t do shit. They let him out all the time, don’t they?” 

“S’not like you never snuck out before,” Erica said. 

“Yeah, cause my dad is shit. He hasn’t tried to find me. Not once. I could never go home, and things would be fine.”

Boyd’s eyes softened. “You like it at Derek’s, right?” 

“When Stiles isn’t there. When Derek isn’t enabling him to within an inch of his life. He’s going to die. You guys see that, right? He’s going to crash his car or overdose in his bed. Then everyone will cry ‘where were the signs?’” Isaac snorted and plucked a piece of his roll off the tray and popped it in his mouth. 

Jackson’s head picked up as he caught Stiles’ name. 

“Then tell someone,” Erica said again.

“It wouldn’t do any good. No one would care.” 

“If no one would care why are you getting so upset about it?” Boyd asked.

“Because! I – _Derek_ would be upset.”

“You said he doesn’t care.” 

“Forget what I said.” 

“You’re the one bringing it up.”

“Forget it,” Isaac said. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Still think you should tell someone,” Erica muttered, casting a glance over at Stiles.

Isaac glared at her and went back to dismembering his food. For the rest of the lunch period he refused to talk, save for a grunt now and again. Likewise, Lydia and Stiles sat quietly, Stiles resting his head on the table, and Lydia on her phone. 

When the bell rang Lydia said something Jackson couldn’t hear. She patted Stiles on arm, shrugged her bag over her shoulder, and disappeared amid the students.

Stiles dragged himself from his seat with a zombie-like stagger and downcast eyes. Isaac bumped into him as he passed. 

“Hey,” Stiles snapped. 

“Look where you’re going,” Isaac said with a shrug.

Erica and Boyd paused, trays still in their hands, eyes flitting between the pair. 

Stiles opened his mouth, faltered, and cleared his throat. 

“I have to talk to Derek after school. Want a ride?” he asked, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Isaac furrowed his brows. 

“No thanks. I saw your parking job. Do you know you’re sideways?” 

“I’m between the lines. It’s no worse than coach.” 

“Coach is the bar now? Some standards you have,” Isaac spat. 

“Oh, fuck you. I was trying to be nice.” 

“By getting us both killed in a wreck? Thanks, no thanks.” 

“Have it your way,” Stiles said. “Enjoy walking your ass home.” 

“That was the plan,” Isaac said. He turned away from him and headed out the double doors without a backward glance. 

It took Erica and Boyd a few seconds to follow him. Before they did Boyd reached over and gave Stiles a very soft squeeze to his shoulder. 

As Jackson watched them walk away a cold tendril of thought wormed into his head. He counted their names, picturing the bullets left in the gun as he did. Stiles, Isaac, Derek Hale, Peter Hale, and Chris Argent. That was already five people. If Erica and Boyd were involved he might not have enough left for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked please leave a comment, thank you :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as the story progresses. If you like this story please leave a comment, thanks, <3 and special thanks to those who are returning to this after reading the first part n.n


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